


Under the Tuscan Sun

by jenga



Category: Pod Save America (RPF)
Genre: Communication Failure, Drunken Shenanigans, F/M, First Time, Honeymoon, M/M, Multi, Sexual Confusion, Threesome - F/M/M, this is honestly a jon/jon/emily/italy OT4 fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-25
Updated: 2018-04-25
Packaged: 2019-04-23 08:03:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 27,713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14328138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jenga/pseuds/jenga
Summary: “Pretty sure you’re not supposed to be bring your neighbor on your honeymoon,” Lovett says, his brows knitting together.“We’re not bringing you,” Jon says, “but as long as we’re all there, it would be fun to hang out a little.”





	Under the Tuscan Sun

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kisatsel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kisatsel/gifts).



> For Grace, who requested "OT3 honeymoon fic," which was a mistake because that shit is like CATNIP to me, and this sprawling nonsense is the result.
> 
> Massive thanks to my beta team, who I'll thank properly after the reveal, but you should know that they were excellent cheerleaders and mean taskmasters.
> 
> (FYI, this fic includes a pseudo-sexual relationship between Lovett and Emily. If that's not your thing, I'd recommend skipping.)

“Viva Italia!” Lovett calls out as he lets himself into Jon and Emily’s house. “I’m an international brand now, folks, take note.”

“Hey,” Jon says, not looking up from his phone. Emily waves in his direction before returning her attention to the Bachelorette. Even Leo ignores him in favor of racing after Pundit into the backyard, leaving Lovett standing in the middle of the living room, apparently invisible.

“This is a friendly greeting,” he says, dropping onto the couch opposite Jon. “ _‘Lovett, it’s so good to see you_ ,’” he says, pitching his voice low. “ _‘Whatever could you mean about your international brand, I’m sure it’s very exciting and interesting news!_ ’”

Jon looks up from his phone, a blank expression on his face. “Lovett, it’s so good to see you,” he says in a monotone. “Please tell us your exciting news.” Emily snorts, but she mutes the television and props her chin on her hand, listening attentively.

“Why, thank you for asking,” Lovett says graciously. “I’m excited to announce that I’ve been asked to speak at the WHO conference on health and income inequality in Rome this summer, please hold your applause.”

“That’s awesome!” Emily exclaims, clapping her hands. Lovett preens: that’s the right level. “When are you going?”

“The week after your wedding, actually, so I’ll probably fly straight from the east coast.”

Jon and Emily exchange a look at that, Emily furrowing her eyebrows. Whatever reaction he’d been expecting, it certainly wasn’t that.

“What—” Lovett asks, but Jon shakes his head.

“Nothing, it’s just—that’s where we’re going for our honeymoon,” he says, a sheepish smile on his face.

“Oh,” Lovett says, nonplussed. “I didn’t—when did you decide that?”

“A few days ago,” Emily tells him. She tilts her head towards Jon, rolling her eyes. “This guy kept flip-flopping.”

“You were torn about Spain, too,” Jon retorts.

“I said I want to go somewhere warm where wine flows like a river,” Emily says. “You’re the one who went three rounds about which country’s fascism felt more applicable to our current national nightmare.”

“Spain’s,” Jon and Lovett respond in unison, before Jon continues, “but we finally landed on Italy and Emily booked our hotels before I could change my mind again.”

Lovett’s suddenly not sure how he’s supposed to respond. He should turn the conference down, right? They don’t want to risk bumping into Lovett on their honeymoon, when it’s supposed to be about them cloistering themselves off from the rest of the world. _Of course, it’s not like they’re going to Bali or some remote village in Peru_ , he thinks, a little bitterly. It’s not exactly his problem if they’re worried about running into someone in one of the biggest cities in Europe. Rude, frankly, for them to think he should turn down a great professional opportunity when they’re probably not going to even leave their hotel room for most of the trip.

He catches the concerned look on Emily’s face, and the pettiness in his chest dissipates. They’re his best friends, and it’s their honeymoon. Of course he’s not going to ruin this for them.

“Don’t worry, it’s not that big of a deal,” he tells them, shrugging. “I can turn it down. It was going to be a pain to get to, anyway.”

“What? No, you should come!” Jon says, glancing back at Emily again. She nods rapidly in agreement. “I mean, you should go to Rome, it’s totally fine.”

“You should!” Emily says eagerly, sitting forward. “It’s a big city, it’s not like we can’t all do our own thing. Plus, it could be fun to get dinner or something one night while you’re there.”

“Pretty sure you’re not supposed to be bring your neighbor on your honeymoon,” Lovett says, his brows knitting together.

“We’re not _bringing_ you,” Jon says, “but as long as we’re all there, it would be fun to hang out a little.”

“C’mon, I’m going to get get bored if it’s just me and Jon the whole time.”

“Hey,” Jon protests, but Lovett is already folding, a little balloon of pleasure swelling in his chest, the same one that presses against his throat whenever he’s reminded that people—certain ones, the _important_ ones—really do like him and want to have him around. Two decades and counting out of high school, and he still finds himself waiting, sometimes, for the rug to get pulled out from under him.

“Come with us,” Emily implores again. Jon grins at him, open and genuine and hopeful, and Lovett has no choice but to agree.

 

—

 

Lovett internally resolves to avoid intruding on Jon and Emily’s trip as much as possible, but he doesn’t count on the happy couple immediately disrupting that plan by insisting on booking the same flight out of the country.

“There are only so many direct flights from Boston to Rome,” Emily points out easily, knocking his hand out of the way so she can scroll through his email and see his flight itinerary. “Anyways, you’re good at distracting Jon before flights.” She reads Lovett’s flight details to Jon, and before Lovett can so much as squawk in protest, Jon has booked two business class seats for himself and Emily on the same outbound flight.

“You’d better not try to join the mile-high club in any bathroom visible from my seat,” Lovett tells them, and their laughter feels more like a non-response than anything.

And so, two days after Jon and Emily wed on a perfect, sunlit summer day, Lovett finds himself squeezed into the backseat of a Lyft at four in the morning, listening to Emily chatter excitedly as they speed towards Logan Airport. He perks up a bit once they get coffee past security, and he’s deep in an argument with Jon about Secretary Mattis’s soul when their flight starts boarding.

“That’s us,” Jon cuts himself off, tugging his bag over his shoulder and gripping Emily’s hand tightly. His mouth is a little pinched and his face has gone pale. Lovett knows how much Jon hates this part—the twenty or so minutes between boarding and takeoff, where he has to sit in nervous anticipation as the aircraft belches to life. He’ll hold Emily’s hand throughout, his palm clammy and fingers wrapped tight, and she won’t show a single second of discomfort the entire time. He suddenly can’t think of a better way for them to begin their marriage.

“What?” Emily asks, seeing the look on his face.

“Nothing, just—” Lovett shrugs, feeling embarrassed by his fond, cheesy musings. “Have a good flight.”

“We’ll come back and find you in steerage,” Jon says. “You can show us how to do an Irish jig.”

“Haha,” Lovett says, rolling his eyes. “You should only come back if you’re going to have your way with me in a carriage in the storage room.”

The crack lands oddly, Emily and Jon both freezing with matching puzzled expressions. Lovett’s thoughts spin out as he tries to find a way to make the joke less awkward, but for once in his life his wit completely fails him, leaving him waving foolishly at the Favreaus as they board the plane.

Three hours into the flight, Lovett abandons his half-finished speech in favor of watching the latest Marvel movie. He’s only ten minutes past the opening credits when a hand pulls his headphones off, making him jump in his seat.

“Hey,” Emily smiles down at him, tugging at his curls. He swats her hand away and her grin widens. “Switch seats with me; Jon’s in a chatty mood and I want to sleep.”

“I’m watching a movie,” Lovett points out, for no reason other than to be a brat. Emily raises one eyebrow, unimpressed. “Okay, fine.”

“Yeah, it’s a real hardship for you,” she says, scooting into his aisle seat as soon as he’s vacated it. “Ooh, you left it all warm for me,” she says, settling back in the chair.

“Gross,” Lovett snorts, then shuffles up the aisle. He slips through the curtain into business class, realizing he should’ve asked Emily where their seats were. Now he’s going to have to wander the aisles like a lost child looking for his mom and—

“Lovett!” Jon says, and he looks to his right to see Jon grinning up at him. “Oh good, Emily found you.” He waves Lovett down, some invisible tension seeming to leech from his shoulders.

Lovett eyes the empty seat next to Jon—it’s already in recline mode, a plush blanket folded down and a pillow propped up against the back. Jon’s seat is set up the same way, and it strikes Lovett how intimate the arrangement looks. Even with the dividing console in the center, the whole thing looks like a comfortable queen bed for two.

“Are you just gonna stand there, or—” Jon trails off into a smile as Lovett plops down onto the seat, scooting low and folding his legs over each other. “So, what do you think has happened since we took off? Emily wouldn’t let me purchase in-flight wifi, since it would ‘distract me' and 'ruin my mood’.”

“Jon,” Lovett says, adopting a serious tone. “I’m sure Trump has been acting with presidential dignity and restraint since the moment our plane took off.”

“Sure,” Jon laughs, stretching his arm up to pillow behind his head. His shirt draws up, teasing an inch of golden skin. “Paul Ryan probably announced a congressional oversight investigation, too.”

“I bet Trey Gowdy made a tearful, televised apology to Hillary Clinton.”

“We should’ve left the country months ago,” Jon says.

“Eh,” Lovett shrugs. “The tacos are pretty good in LA, it's a trade-off.”

“You gonna be okay without any Mexican food for a week?”

“Probably not, but I’ll try to make do with eating my weight in pasta and gelato.”

“We’re gonna roll you on to the plane home,” Jon says.

“Yeah,” Lovett says, then remembers. “No, actually, I’m flying home a few days before you. I’ll have to get someone at the airport to wheel me onto the plane.”

“Oh, right,” Jon says, his brow furrowing. He shakes his head with a little laugh. “I guess I kinda forgot you weren’t going to be with us the entire time. _Now_ who’s going to have my back when Emily says I’m spending too much time on Twitter? I was counting on a two-on-one situation.”

Lovett laughs, the back of his neck warming. “Where are you going after Rome, again? Venice? Florence?”

“Florence—actually, a little outside of the city, on the Tuscan countryside,” Jon says, perking up. “Emily found this amazing house on a vineyard for our last few nights. The owner’s mother is going to come teach us how to make marinara sauce.”

“Wow,” Lovett says, impressed despite himself. “That actually sounds like the type of vacation I’d enjoy.”

“You and Emily both. Sure you don’t want to come?” Jon asks, jokingly.

Lovett feels his stomach twist, worrying he’s already overstepped. Emily and Jon have made a point of including him in their plans since they found out he’d be in Rome.  They've already scheduled dinner together the night after next, and Emily purposefully planned their trip to the Vatican around Lovett’s speech in case he wants to join them. Lovett knows he could keep taking advantage of them if he wanted—a few sad faces and they'll insist on including him in every meal, every outing. He’ll just have to be firmer about refusing their invitations, and save them from their overly-accommodating natures.

“Pundit would be furious with me,” he responds; then, cutting off the conversation before Jon can do something ridiculous like invite Lovett to join them on a romantic villa in Tuscany, he flips on his monitor and starts looking for the movie he’d been watching. “Wanna watch something?”

“Nah,” Jon says, pushing lower in his seat and closing his eyes. “I’m gonna try and sleep for a bit.”

And he does. The lights in the cabin grow dim a short while later, and Lovett finds himself glancing over at Jon under the protective darkness. His face is lit up in the glow of Lovett’s television screen, his long eyelashes brushing his cheeks as he breathes, slow and steady.

When Emily comes to reclaim her seat an hour later, Lovett’s movie has finished and he can’t remember a single frame of it.

 

—

 

Lovett checks into his hotel room, drops face-down onto his king-sized bed, and sleeps for six hours.

When he blinks his eyes open, his throat is dry and scratchy and he’s pouring sweat in a mid-afternoon sunbeam. He drags himself into a shower, downs two complimentary bottles of water in quick succession, and by the time he’s dressed he’s feeling moderately more human.

Throwing his laptop into his backpack, he heads downstairs and walks outside into a blistering, noisy heat. With no real direction in mind, he wanders. There are little cafes on every block—shallow, dark rooms with wide doors swung open to the street, old men gathering at the counter to drink espresso and shout merrily at each other. He dodges bikes and scooters, and even the occasional car that has no business squeezing through such narrow alleys. The whole city is a vibrant heartbeat, warm and inviting and complex, and Lovett finds himself grinning as he weaves his way through the streets.

Lovett finally stops at an open-air bar that boasts cold beer, oysters, and, most importantly, air conditioning. He grabs a table by a window and opens his laptop to resume work on his speech.

He finishes his closing paragraph and second beer at the same time, setting the bottle down with a satisfied thunk. It’s a good speech—funny, and sharp, and with three major blocks that will create a nice thesis. It’s the kind of speech people will remember, and he’s sure to leave the conference with a thick list of numbers to call for interviews and research. Lovett wonders, not for the first time, if they should create some limited-run shows focusing on specific policies and substantive issues—like health care, and economic policy, and energy independence. He makes a note in his phone to bring it up with Jon and Tommy when he’s back in LA, sends his speech to Priyanka to copy edit, and orders a celebratory cannoli.

His phone rings as he’s taking his first giant bite. He glances down to see Jon’s name lighting up, somehow as bright and happy as the man himself. “Gherro?” Lovett answers shamelessly.

“Lovett?” Jon asks.

Lovett swallows manfully, managing to get it all down. “No, Mussolini.”

“Okay, well, does Mussolini want to join us for dinner?”

Lovett blinks, pulling the phone back to stare at it in confusion. Have these people never _heard_ of a honeymoon? “Dinner?”

“Yeah, we just woke up a little bit ago—”

“So you slept through the entire first day of your honeymoon and now you want to invite a third person to dinner?”

“It’s not a _fancy_ thing,” Jon says, seemingly unbothered. “We’re just gonna run down the street for some pasta—our concierge recommended a place right between our hotels.”

(Right, because: “Oh, we’re actually just a block from your hotel,” Jon had said cheerfully as they gave instructions to the taxi driver.

“That’s a nice coincidence,” Lovett had said, remembering Emily saying they’d booked their hotels right before he told them he’d be in Rome.

Except, “we were actually about a mile away,” Emily had shrugged. “But these hotels are owned by the same company, so we figured this could be more fun!”

Lovett had stared at them, seeing no sign of chagrin or hesitancy on their blinking, smiling faces. “....oh.”)

“So, meet us in an hour? The place is—”

“I already ate!” Lovett says, too loudly. He winces. “Also, I’m out right now, and I’m probably gonna just go back to the hotel and fall asleep. I’ve been out all day.” It’s a lie, of course, but he’s realizing he needs to give Jon and Emily better excuses so they don’t feel obligated to let him tag along. “I’m really stuffed, and beat, and tired,” he continues emphatically. “You guys go ahead and enjoy.”

“Oh, okay,” Jon says after a minute. “Well, we’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Sure, maybe,” Lovett demurs. “I’m probably going to be busy writing this speech for the next day, though.” He looks at the finished draft on his computer with a twinge of guilt, then slams his laptop shut.

“Right,” Jon says, then his voice goes soft as he relays their conversation to Emily. “Emily says she wants to sleep in tomorrow morning, though. Want to go on a run, since you’re going to be getting to bed early?”

Lovett, of course, is trapped. He rubs a hand over his face. “Yeah, that sounds great. Six am?” he says, suggesting an absurdly early hour in the hopes that Jon will beg off.

“Perfect!” Jon says cheerfully, and hangs up before Lovett can take it back.

 

—

 

Lovett is wide awake by four in the morning, so he’s actually eager to strap on his running shoes and meet Jon on the corner when the appointed time arrives. Jon is propped against a stone wall as he walks up, thumbing through his phone with a furrowed brow.

“Did the world end yet?” Lovett asks as he comes up next to him.  Jon's head swings around and he breaks out into a smile.

“Not yet.”

“Good, then get off your phone,” Lovett says. “You’re on your honeymoon.”

“My wife is dead to the world and will never know,” Jon says. “You, on the other hand, are my business partner who understands the value of building our brand on social media.” 

“Oh, retweeting snarky things about center-right health care takes is _definitely_ on-brand for you.”

Jon’s grin widens, and he pockets his phone. “Looks like I’m not the only one on twitter this morning.”

“Shut up,” Lovett laughs.

They run for an hour through winding, mostly empty streets. Lovett finds himself laughing as they chase each other up the Spanish Steps, dodging a few tourists to get to the top, then jogging back down again. They run past the Trevi Fountain, slowing to admire the massive sculpture, then picking up again for the last quarter mile to their street. Jon spins around as he reaches the final corner, grinning in triumph. His face is red and sweaty, his shirt clinging to his chest. Lovett slows to a stop, his heart pounding in his throat.

“Good run,” he says breathlessly, dropping his hands to his hips.

“Yeah, thanks for coming,” Jon says. “I’m gonna grab a couple pastries and coffee for Emily, you want anything?”

Lovett shakes his head. “Nah, no need to immediately negate all the calories we just burned, right?”

Jon shrugs. “Hey, the wedding’s over, we can start working on our dad bods now.”

“Uh, _your_ wedding is over,” Lovett points out. “My future wedding to a West Hollywood gym bro is still several years away, so I’ve got to keep it tight for my future man.”

Jon just looks at him, and Lovett wonders if he stretched it too far, leaned so hard into the joke that he stumbled and revealed himself. 

“You look good,” Jon says after a minute, a soft smile playing at his lips. “That West Hollywood gym bro is a lucky guy.”

“Uh,” Lovett says dumbly. His heart slams in his chest and he can’t think of a response. “Sure. Right.”

“You do,” Jon says easily. “Okay, we’ll call you later about our plans for the day.”

“You’ll what now?” Lovett asks, but Jon is already waving and jogging away.

Lovett leaves his phone on silent and spends his morning wandering through various Roman ruins, breaking at lunch to scarf down an entire pizza. Jetlag catches up with him after lunch, and he heads back to his hotel to collapse on his bed. He wakes up to see four missed calls and a string of texts from Jon and Emily on his phone, demanding his presence for dinner that evening.

“No, come on,” Emily says when he calls to say he can't come. “We found this adorable place today while we were out and we already made reservations. You have to join us.”

“I have my speech in the morning,” Lovett protests.

“You still have to eat, don’t you?”

“I was just going to order some room service—”

“Lovett, we’re in Rome!” Emily cried out. “You can’t spend the whole time in your hotel room, you’ve got to get out and enjoy the city!”

Lovett thinks about pointing out that he _has_ been doing just that—that his feet are sore from walking miles around the old ruins, that he’s stuffed himself full of delicious pasta and pizza and wine—but he hesitates. He is hungry, after all, and Emily lets out a low, wheedling _pleeeaase_ that cracks the last of his resolve.

“Okay,” he says, and smiles when Emily lets out a small cheer on her end. “But it needs to be an early night.” They can have the rest of the evening to themselves, he figures—plenty of time to go out dancing or find a romantic cafe once he’s gone to bed. “Give me ten minutes.”

“Make it five,” Emily says. “I’m starving and I miss you.” She hangs up, leaving Lovett to stare at his phone.

The restaurant _is_ adorable. It feels like being in a magical garden, lit up with candles and fairy lights woven through bowers of ivy. It’s small and cozy and _absurdly_ romantic, something that doesn’t seem to phase Emily at all as she hooks her arm through Lovett’s and tugs him through the doors. They weave their way up to the maitre’d. “Table for Favreau?” she requests, and the host looks up.

“Ah, Mr. and Mrs. Favreau, right this way!” he says cheerfully, gesturing widely with his arm. Lovett looks around for Jon, but he’s not even in the restaurant—Lovett can see him on the curb outside, phone to his ear, probably talking to his mom. He considers correcting the mistaken assumption, but Emily is already following the host to their table. He follows her to a cozy booth under an ornate bower and slides in across from her.

“Would you like to start with some wine?” a waiter asks, appearing as if by magic at Lovett’s elbow. He jumps.

“Um,” Lovett says, looking questioningly at Emily.

“What do you feel like?” she asks, handing him the wine menu.

Lovett’s knee rattles under the table, feeling sublimely uncomfortable. He knows what this looks like. While he normally would roll his eyes and make a joke about being mistaken for Emily’s boyfriend, he feels off-balance on this trip, as if there’s a right choice and a wrong choice at every turn. “I’m not—” he begins to say, but Emily nudges his ankle with her foot and he looks at her.

“Sweetie, why don’t you let him recommend something for us?” Emily suggests, her eyes twinkling. She’s _teasing_ him. She knows what’s happening here, she sees how awkward he feels, and she’s laughing at him. Lovett feels the tension rush out of him, even as the back of his neck heats up. If she doesn’t mind—if she thinks it’s just a funny joke—

“You heard the lady,” Lovett says, cutting his eyes up to their waiter. “Something robust and, um, oakey?”

Emily snorts, but their waiter merely nods solemnly and sweeps the wine list from Lovett’s fingers, disappearing as quickly as he’d arrived.

She smiles across the table at him, tilting her head. “Isn’t this _romantic_?” she asks, her voice high and breathless. “I’m so happy to be here with you, my darling.”

“Okay,” Lovett rolls his eyes. “It’s weird enough being mistaken for your husband without you also turning into Marilyn Monroe.”

“What’s this?” Jon ask, dropping into the booth next to him as Emily dissolves into giggles.

“Ask your wife,” Lovett says grumpily, tugging the bread basket towards himself. Jon snatches a roll out of the basket as it slides past, tearing a piece off and dipping it into the bowl of olive oil.

“Are you causing trouble?” he asks Emily.

“Not at all,” Emily says innocently. “I’m just having a lovely dinner with my husband.”

Lovett chokes on his bread. He’s gulping down water while Jon pounds his back when the waiter reappears, wine in hand.

“Oh!” the waiter says, stopping in surprise. “I only brought two glasses, apologies!”

“That’s alright,” Emily beams up at him. “Our friend decided to join us,” she explains, gesturing at Jon.

Jon’s brow knits in confusion as Emily winks at him, and Lovett can see the moment the lightbulb clicks on. “Oh!” he says, and then, more sedately, “right. My friends are here on their honeymoon, and I was able to meet them for dinner.”

“How lovely,” the waiter says. “Let me get you another glass, sir.”

Emily bursts out laughing as soon as he disappears, giggling into her hands. “You’re loopy,” Lovett tells her. “Jet lag is making you _very_ weird.”

Jon grins at Lovett. “I take one five-minute phone call and you steal my wife?”

“Oh my god,” Lovett says weakly.

“Jon, switch with me,” Emily commands, and a minute later she’s sliding into the booth next to Lovett, scooting right into his side. “There, isn’t this nice?” she asks him, propping her chin up on his shoulder as Jon laughs at them across the table.

The thing is—

—the waiter brings a third glass, and pours them a breathtakingly delicious bottle of Merlot, waiting until Lovett has tasted his first before filling all three glasses—

—Emily leans into Lovett’s side throughout dinner, squeezing his knee every time she laughs, leaning up to kiss him on the cheek even when no one is watching except Jon—

—their conversation flows like the wine they keep ordering, easy and unhurried. They discuss politics, but for the first time in a year it feels removed, like something happening to other people, far far away, the clanging alarms blessedly silent for once—

—Jon watches him and Emily from across the table, his eyes bright in the candlelight, his cheeks red from the drink and his laugh even louder than normal—and he has never, Lovett can admit after his (fourth? fifth?) glass of wine, looked more—

—maybe he can’t admit it. But the thing is—

—it is nice. It’s wonderfully, stupendously, deliciously nice, every drop of it.

 

 

Lovett plans to head right back to his hotel after dinner, but Jon drags them up to a gelato counter first, pointing delightedly at the case and its brightly-colored contents.

“How are you hungry?” Emily groans, but it turns into a moan when Jon feeds her a sample spoonful of pomegranate gelato. “Oh my god, Lovett, you have to try this.”

“I want peanut butter,” Lovett says, pressing his cheek to the cool glass and poking at his chosen flavor. “Or mint. Or both.” He wrinkles his nose. “No, not both.”

“Let’s try both!” Jon suggests eagerly, and so the three of them find themselves each holding small spoonfuls of mint and peanut butter gelato, staring each other down.

“Ready?” Emily asks.

“Three, two—” Jon winks at her.

“This is a mistake,” Lovett says, but puts both spoons in his mouth and swallows

They all fall silent, considering, and finally Jon speaks up. “It’s actually not as bad as I was expecting.”

“Yeah,” Emily says thoughtfully. “It’s kind of good?”

“It’s not,” Lovett says firmly, even as he licks both spoons clean. “We’re just drunk.”

It’s not enough to stop Jon from actually _buying_ a double-scoop cone of peanut butter and mint gelato, licking happily at the melting treat as they wander aimlessly. Lovett can’t even tell if they’re heading in the direction of their hotels anymore.

“Babe, it’s dripping down your arm,” Emily laughs, catching a drop of mint ice cream on his wrist and sucking it into her mouth. Lovett _sees_ the moment Jon’s expression shifts—the way his Adam’s apple bobs and his eyes darken, and his lips, stained and wet from the ice cream, part unconsciously. Emily sees it too, perhaps she was hoping for it, because her lips curl into a smirk around her finger, and she gives it one more firm suck before releasing it with a _pop_.

“God,” Jon exhales, swaying towards Emily and then back, as if remembering Lovett’s presence.

Lovett’s heart sinks—this is exactly what he feared, being the pathetic third wheel on their _honeymoon._ “No, it’s okay,” he says, gesturing grandly with his arm. “Don’t worry about me.”

“It’s okay,” Jon shakes his head, but Lovett cuts him off, saying loudly, “no really, I don’t mind!” He doesn’t, right? He shouldn’t. He definitely doesn’t. He has no idea what they’re even talking about anymore. Jon has dropped his cone, the gelato melting into the cobbled street as he lifts his arm to lick the mess from his skin. Lovett’s mouth goes dry.

“Oh my god,” Emily laughs, her face flushed. She steps into Jon’s side, curling herself against him for a closer look. “Babe, you’re a mess.”

“Want to help?” he asks her in a low voice, an arm slung low around her hips, tugging her close. She nods, leaning in and—god, running her tongue down the inside of his arm, collecting the melted sweetness from his skin. Lovett feels his blood turn to fire, and he knows Jon feels the same way because he _groans_ and tucks his face into her neck.

Lovett is frozen, unable to move or even look away. He’s always known objectively that they were an attractive couple, but this—but now—

“Okay!” Emily squeaks, pushing Jon away forcibly and catching her breath. She’s flushed and laughing and as bright as the sun, and for one brilliant, disorienting moment Lovett imagines her looking at him the way she’s looking at Jon.

Rome. It’s Rome. Rome is doing a number on his brain. Jon seizes Emily’s small hand in his and tugs her along. "Come on!" he says, calling over his shoulder to Lovett.

He follows after them, as if he ever had a choice. As if his feet could do anything but.

They wander. There's music around every corner, a whole city alive and in love, and none of them seem in any rush to find their bearings. Jon keeps Emily's hand in his, leaning down to kiss her every few moments. They've never been shy about their displays of affection, but this—Jon pushing Emily up against a wall, kissing her deeply, rolling his entire body into hers—well. Lovett supposes he's thankful they don't normally behave like this. He can't decide what's worse: watching them together, or the moments in between when they're hyper-focused on  _him_ —dragging him in between them, squeezing close, a suffocating blanket of affection and attention. 

Eventually they pass a restaurant they recognize, then a church, and then their street springs up beneath their feet, as if by magic.

Lovett is _drunk_. He’s drunk, and he’s going to be miserably hungover in the morning when he has to stand in front of three thousand brilliant academics, politicians, and activists and speak about the _economy._ “I have to give a speech tomorrow,” he says, drooping onto Emily’s shoulder as they walk arm-in-arm towards his hotel. Jon walks on her other side, their fingers entwined.

“I’m going to throw up on the director of the World Health Organization tomorrow,” he says, scrubbing a hand down his face. “If I even wake up on time.”

“Baby, he should stay with us,” Emily says, tugging on Jon’s hand. “We need to make sure he gets to his speech on time.”

“Yeah, definitely,” Jon agrees, nodding. “We can order room service breakfast.”

“I have room service at my hotel,” Lovett points out. “Also an alarm.”

“You’ve slept through every alarm you ever set,” Jon says. Unfair. Maybe true, but still unfair that Jon knows enough about Lovett to make any sort of argument against him. This is why people live in caves.

“I don’t need you to baby-sit me,” Lovett says grumpily, tugging away from Emily’s grasp. “I’m an adult.”

“I’m an _adult_ ,” Emily giggles. “Like that Andy Samberg video.”

“You’re _not_ an adult,” Lovett says. She sticks her tongue out at him.

“Here we are,” Jon says, as they arrive at the entrance to their hotel. The air is heavy and rich, sitting warm on Lovett’s skin. He looks at Emily and Jon—a perfect matched set, tanned and glowing and happy, arms wrapped around each other. Jon tilts his head and raises his eyebrows at Lovett, a silent inquiry. _Coming up?_ And Lovett could. He wants to. He wants to pile into the elevator with them and let himself into their room and kick off his shoes like he belongs. He wants to let Emily curl around him as they make Jon laugh with his whole body, and then he wants to grow sleepy and slow between them until he falls asleep to the sound of their voices.

Jon’s wedding ring glints in the lamplight. Lovett grins ruefully back at them. “Night,” he says, and, with a wave, heads down the street to his hotel.

 

—

 

Lovett’s hangover is, as expected, monstrous.

By some miracle he manages to shower, dress, and choke down a piece of toast before his car comes. It's barely 8 am but the sun is already bright and hot as he climbs into the car. He sits in the backseat, clenching his paper coffee cup with both hands as he leans his forehead against the cool glass. 

“Ugh,” he grunts as they go around a tight bend, closing his eyes. He tries to distract himself from the swirling nausea by going over his speech in his head, but it makes him feel worse—every word he gets wrong sending a jolt of anxiety through his unsteady stomach. Breathing slowly through his nose, he tries to think soothing thoughts. Pundit. His favorite armchair. His parent’s backyard. Jon and Emily, kissing under a lamplight.

The noise disappears. His muscles relax. Jon threads his fingers through Emily’s silky hair and she laughs into his mouth, and Lovett keeps his eyes closed as Rome speeds by outside his window.

 

 

He’s in the greenroom, blinking absently at his notecards, when one of the stage managers knocks on his door. “Signor Lovett?” he says, poking his head in. “Two friends, they are here to see you?”

“Friends?” Lovett says blearily, but the man is already ushering Jon and Emily in. “Uh—what are you guys doing here?”

“Nice,” Jon says. They look almost as bad as Lovett feels—Jon is unshaven and Emily’s hair is in as messy a bun as she might be capable of—but they’re both smiling. “How about, ‘oh wow, it’s so nice you came to see my speech!’”

“You came to see my speech?” Lovett repeats, confused. He’s still not sure he’s fully awake. “Why?”

“Because it’s cool!” Emily says.

“It’s really not.”

“You’re an international brand now,” she parrots.

“It’s a speech about economic inequality.”

“Yeah, but you wrote it,” Jon says, and Lovett’s mouth snaps shut. He fights down a pleased smile, trying not to let them see how much it means to him that they’re here. No need to encourage this kind of behavior. He tries to remember if they had plans this morning—maybe a spa day? He tamps down a guilty feeling about them skipping out on their fun romantic plans to sit in a stuffy conference hall at this ungodly hour of...9:30 in the morning.

"We brought you a cinnamon roll," Emily says, handing him a little box tied with a string. "You're welcome."

"Thank you," Lovett says, rocking back on his heels, picking at the string on the box and fighting down a smile  

He reads his speech out loud for them. They laugh and clap at all the right moments, making a couple suggestions throughout, and praise it profusely when he’s finished. Then, halfway through the second read-through, he delivers one of his best jokes to dead silence. He glances over, prepared to yell at them for being on their phones and not paying him proper attention, but his outrage dies in his throat.

Jon’s head is tipped back against the couch cushions and Emily is curled into his side. They’re both fast asleep.

Lovett takes them in, his eyes tracing the line of Jon’s arm, looped around Emily’s back, his long fingers disappearing into her back pocket. She has a hand curled lightly over his stomach, the soft fabric of his t-shirt in her fist. Jon’s mouth is open slightly and Emily is snoring.

A knock on the door startles Lovett, and he nearly drops his notecards. His fingers feel clumsy and heavy as he opens the door. With a finger to his lips, he ducks out of the room, shutting the lights off as he closes the door behind him.

 

—

 

“But we wanted to see it!” Jon says for the fifth time as they walk into the cafe. “That’s why we _came!”_

“You did see it! You got the exclusive premiere version, VIPs only. Let’s get a pizza to split.”

“I need a salad,” Emily says, sitting in the seat the waiter pulls out for her. “Also about ten bottles of sparkling water.”

“I was great, by the way, thanks for asking,” Lovett says. He feels more like himself than he’s felt this entire trip. The speech was a huge success—he got a standing ovation, and he was still shaking hands with people thirty minutes after the plenary ended when he glanced up to see Emily and Jon standing off to the side. She had rolled her eyes in his direction, while Jon had fixed him with a look of pure betrayal that made Lovett burst out laughing from halfway across the room.

“I _did_ ask,” Jon says testily as he sits down. “In fact, I got up at seven in the morning and went halfway across the city to _see it myself_.”

“Well, it’s not my fault you two looked so cute sleeping,” Lovett shrugs, thumbing through his notifications. He flinches, wondering if that was a weird thing to say, but when he chances a glance up they’re already studying the menu and quietly debating pizza toppings.

“So, you’re hanging out with us today, right?” Emily asks halfway through lunch. “We already saw a lot of what we wanted to see, so we thought we’d just wander, maybe do some shopping.”

“She’s gonna do some shopping,” Jon says around a mouthful of pizza. “I’m gonna tell her she looks nice and read my twitter feed.”

Emily rolls her eyes and flicks his shoulder. “I should steal your phones.”

“Hey, I didn’t make any vows,” Lovett says, not looking up from his own twitter app. “Dan is getting into it with some GOP chief-of-staff, this is good stuff.”

“Let me see,” Jon says, already craning his neck.

“Okay!” Emily cries out, snatching Lovett’s phone away. He reaches for it with a squawk of protest. “No more phones for the rest of the day.” She slips her hand into Jon’s pocket and takes his phone as well, dropping both into her bag. “Pay attention to me.”

“That’s my line,” Lovett says, but he drops his chin on his fist and focuses intently on her. “Why, Mrs. Favreau, tell me everything on your mind.”

“That’s more like it,” Emily says with a smile, and it’s hours before Lovett even thinks to ask for his phone back.

 

 

They walk, and shop, and stop for drinks, and walk again until their feet are sore and they’re lost all over again. They find themselves in a little park overlooking the city just as the sun is starting to sink low in the sky, painting Rome in pinks and oranges and deep, burnished golds. Lovett snaps a few photos of the landscape, wishing Pundit were here so he could frame her mopey little face in the shot.  _She's unimpressed_ , he might caption it, and then for a week his mentions would be full of dog pictures and people discussing their own trips to Rome. He grins as he pockets his phone, marveling how distant all of it feels right now.

Emily drops down onto a low stone bench with a groan. "Wow, look at this view," Jon says as he and Lovett squeeze in on either side of her. Emily squirms around so her back is pressed against Lovett's shoulder and her feet are over Jon's lap, settling in with a contented hum. They sit in silence for a few moments. The city is breathtaking in the late afternoon sun—awash in orange and gold, sprawling out in every direction. After a few days in the bustling heart of the city, it’s nice to find this quiet moment.

Emily sighs happily, leaning heavier into Lovett’s side and pushing her feet into Jon’s leg. He glances at her and, with a snort, collects her small feet in his hands and digs his fingers into the arches of her feet.

“God,” she moans, her head tipping back on to Lovett’s shoulder. “Baby, right there.”

“Here?” Jon asks, and she hisses, her head flopping back. Lovett can’t even spring up without causing Emily to fall back onto the stone bench. He’s trapped next to them, listening to—

“Ah! Yeah, that’s good, keep going,” she breathes, her voice hitching as he digs his thumb in again. “God!”

“Oh my _god_ ,” Lovett says, disbelief coloring his voice. “This is the most sexual sounding foot rub I’ve ever—” he cuts himself off, doubting himself. With everything that’s been skating through his mind recently, maybe he has no perspective on what is or isn’t sexual when it comes to these two. Maybe he’s completely overreacting; maybe when he looks over Jon will have a confused, concerned expression on his face, wondering if his best friend might be a pervert.

Jon laughs, and Lovett glances over to see him grinning down at Emily’s feet, a blush rising on his cheeks. “Yeah,” he shrugs, squeezing Emily’s ankle. “She gets a little—well, we can’t really do this in front of other people.”

“Oh, but you can do it in front of me?” Lovett asks, deciding that insulted is his safest bet at the moment.

Jon looks at him, his fingers resuming their work on Emily’s slim calves. “I guess it’s different with you.”

Emily reaches back to squeeze his knee, her head still tucked against his shoulder. “Oh,” Lovett says, his gaze skittering away from Jon’s face. “Okay.”

 

—

 

They head back to their respective hotels for a nap, but Emily makes Lovett swear that he’ll join them for dinner.

(“It’s your big day!” she’d said, making big, puppy dog eyes at him. “We’ve got to do something special to celebrate.”

“I think we’ve done plenty—”

“Oh, but it’s our last night with you,” she’d cut in. “Who knows when we’ll all be in Rome together again?”

“Lovett, she’s just going to come up to your room and get you if you don’t come down,” Jon had pointed out.

“Okay, okay! But when Tommy gives me a hard time for being a hanger-on all week, you’d better—”

“Blame you entirely?” Jon had said innocently, tilting his head.

“Don't you fucking _dare_ ," Lovett had said, laughing despite himself.)

So. Another restaurant, another warm, humid night, another steady flow of delicious wine and a bowl of spaghetti so good Lovett wants to cry. They're crammed together at a small table, Jon next to Lovett this time, their chairs pushed so close together that their arms keep brushing against each other.

Emily takes some pictures of them from across the table. “Aw, you two look so cute,” she says, grinning at her phone.

“Let me see,” Lovett says, and when she hands it over he scans back to the beginning of the evening, carefully avoiding going further back in case they took some...indecent photos at any point on this trip. The pictures of him and Jon _are_ good—they look happy and relaxed, laughing at each other and in Emily’s direction, the gardens behind them and the candles on the table lending the whole scene a cinematic atmosphere. “I like the last three,” he tells Emily, handing it back. “You can post any of those.”

“I’m not posting _any_ of these,” Emily laughs. “Then I’m just going to get a bunch of messages wondering why I was crashing your honeymoon.”

Lovett laughs, even as the back of his neck warms. Emily smiles at him across the table, her small, white teeth glinting in the candlelight, and he forces himself to relax. They wanted him to come out tonight, he reminds himself. He’s not intruding. He’s not a burden. 

“So, Florence tomorrow?” he asks, even though he probably knows their whole itinerary by heart at this point. He’s been thinking about it all week, the long, sunlit days they’ll have together to enjoy themselves, just the two of them. They’ll ride scooters through the Italian countryside, and make homemade marinara sauce, and dance to mandolin music under the stars, and they’ll tumble back into bed in the mid-afternoon heat, taking their time because there will be no one else they’ll need to see, nothing else they’ll need to do except eat, and drink, and fuck.

Emily laughs at something Jon says, and Lovett blinks away that train of thought. Why should he be feeling sorry for himself? He's in a beautiful foreign city with two of the people he loves best in the world. Life is good. What more does a guy really need?

“Another bottle?” their waitress asks several minutes later, coming to collect their third empty one of the night. Lovett beams up at her, feeling great affection for this city and all its inhabitants. Rome. What a novel concept. What a great idea, this city. Someone should give it an award.

“Sure!” Jon says. “It is our honeymoon, after all.”

“Oh, it’s—” their waitress pauses, glancing around the table. Lovett can see her trying to decide which two are the couple, and he almost rolls his eyes at her. Can’t she tell? Isn’t it obvious? _One of these things just doesn’t belong…_

“Ours,” Jon repeats, his arm landing on the back of Lovett’s chair, wrapping his fingers around Lovett's bicep and drawing him in. Across the table, Emily smothers a laugh behind her hand, her eyes dancing. Lovett glares at her, fighting the urge to squirm out of Jon’s grip. _Ha ha_ , he thinks. _This joke really has legs._ Jon scrapes his nails lightly under Lovett’s sleeve and he closes his eyes briefly, praying his face isn't doing anything weird.

“ _Complimenti_ ,” their waitress smiles at them. “I’ll bring you a new bottle, on the house.”

“ _Grazi,_ ” Jon beams at her, still tracing patterns under Lovett’s sleeve. Lovett’s brain flickers, shorting out as Jon slides his fingers down his bicep, smoothing into the delicate skin inside his elbow. His hands grow heavy on his thighs, cement oozing through his limbs and weighing him down, immobilizing him.

He’s not going to be able to hide his reaction from this. It’s an innocent touch, almost platonic, and Lovett’s going to give the whole game away in a minute if Jon keeps his hands on him. He needs to get up. He needs to get out of here. He needs to—

“She’s coming back,” Emily says, her voice low. “You might want to make this believable.”

“Yeah,” Jon says, right when Lovett says “what,” and then Jon turns Lovett’s face towards him and kisses him, and all his cognitive skills go flying out the window.

It’s a gentle kiss, just a slide of Jon's lips over his, but the world goes quiet, whatever Emily is saying to the waitress sounding muffled and distant. His world narrows down to a few square inches of skin—Jon's soft lips on his, fingers digging into his arm, his hand gently cradling his jaw. It's like his body divides into two: places Jon isn't touching him, and places where he is. 

Then—maybe a minute later, maybe an hour—Jon is pulling away, smiling up at their waitress, his lips forming words that have no meaning. Lovett stares at his mouth, swaying forward as if he might chase it, join it with his again, steal a few more seconds tasting him—but Jon is already lifting the glass of wine, laughing at something Emily said, leaving Lovett behind in this hazy, drunken world where nothing makes sense.

“Lovett?” Emily asks, and he swivels his head towards her. He can only imagine what his face looks like right now. “We’re toasting.”

“Yeah,” Lovett says, his own voice sounding like a faint, distant thing. Emily looks unbothered, patiently waiting for him to pick up his glass. She definitely doesn’t look like she might be upset that her husband kissed someone else. In front of her. On her honeymoon. Is this a straight people thing? Is this something straight people do? Invite their weirdest friend for a couple nights of foreplay and distraction? It’s not, of course it’s not, he would’ve been _told_. Unless it’s a secret straight people keep from their gay friends, so as not to spoil the surprise. Maybe next year Tommy and Hanna will invite him on _their_ honeymoon. Maybe he should be expecting a call from Shomik any day.

Fully aware that his thoughts are spiralling, he reaches for his wine, but finds that his right arm is still trapped under Jon’s hand. He hasn’t released him—in fact, his fingers are digging into the meat of his bicep, a steel grip that belies Jon’s relaxed sprawl and easy smile. “Uh, I need my arm,” he says, glancing sideways at him.

Jon looks over. Lovett wants to flinch away, demand that Jon never look at him like this—like he’s scanning him, like he’s seeing right through him. “You have two, right?” Jon asks, rubbing his thumb down the inside of Lovett’s bicep.

“I think so, yeah,” Lovett responds, his tongue clumsy in his mouth. He reaches for the glass with his left arm, and when he sits back Jon pulls him in closer, keeps him snug against his side. Lovett feels dizzy, letting himself be manhandled back until he’s practically leaning against Jon’s chest, only the arms of their chairs stopping Jon from tugging him closer.

Emily lifts her wineglass and beams at them both. “To, um, new beginnings. And adventure. And this wonderful week with my two favorite people,” she says, biting her lip. “I love you both.”

“I love you,” Jon says, and Lovett can feel his chest rumble when he speaks. He closes his eyes. “Lovett loves you, too,” Jon says, squeezing his arm tightly.

“Uh, yeah. Absolutely,” he says, squirming. “Happy...honeymoon, to you both? What are you supposed to say?”

“Probably just congratulations,” Emily says.

“I said that already,” Lovett says. He has. He’d said it at their engagement party, and several times at their wedding, and a couple times on this trip. He’s congratulated them _plenty_. “Many happy returns,” he settles on, swigging his wine.

 

 

By the time they leave the restaurant, Lovett almost believes he hallucinated the whole kiss. Neither of them are acting like anything is amiss. Emily slips her arm into his as they walk down the street, keeping up a lively stream of conversation about their plans for Tuscany, about gifts and souvenirs she plans to buy, about her plans to go to Spain for their fifth anniversary and do the whole thing all over again.

He figures they might want to head back to the hotel, but Jon hears distant music and perks up, looking distressingly like Leo for a minute. “Come on,” he says, grabbing Lovett’s wrist and tugging him along, Emily following after them. They follow the bass music to an outdoor club—a DJ on one side of a courtyard and a throng of sweaty people dancing in the center, lit by hanging vines and Edison bulbs. It feels like every rooftop bar in LA, right down to the bad 90s hip hop playing on the speakers. Jon turns towards them, a delighted grin on his face. “Wanna dance?” he asks.

“Absolutely not,” Lovett says, but Emily pushes him forward and they let the crowd swallow them up.

People press in on all sides, the temperature ratcheting up ten degrees as soon as they’re on the dance floor. Lovett can feel his shirt slicking down his back as he bops awkwardly to the beat. The other two press close, Emily holding onto his hand and jumping around, her hair sticking to her forehead. “I love this song!” she shouts in his ear.

“Were you even alive when this came out?” he asks loudly, but she rolls her eyes and ignores him, bopping to the music. Her arms swing wildly and her hair flies in every direction—the kind of ridiculous, unselfconscious dancing only truly beautiful people can get away with. He can’t help but laugh as she makes a face at him, pulling him towards her as she twirls in place.

Jon wraps himself around her from behind, pressing his face into her neck. She’s so tiny, she almost disappears behind his large arms. Lovett wonders how easily Jon can pick her up. Maybe if he asks they’ll show him right here—a _Dirty Dancing_ lift on the dance floor. He bet the DJ has the song on his computer.

Emily twists her head back and kisses Jon, craning her neck up to reach, wrapping an arm behind the back of his neck, causing her silky tank to lift and reveal inches of midriff. Jon’s large hand spreads over her bare stomach, long fingers splaying under the hem of her shirt and the waistband of her pants. It’s a possessive touch, a comfortable one. _I married her_ , it screams to the world, right down to the wedding ring glinting on his finger.

Lovett's attempt to back away is thwarted when Emily tugs him back in by the hand she's still grasping. She breaks the kiss and smirks at him, keeping her grip on his fingers tight. “Don’t sneak off,” she says, her eyes bright. “You have to stay.”

“I was just going to get some water,” Lovett lies. “Plus, you know—!” He waves his hand in their direction. “Alone time!”

Emily narrows her eyes. “We don’t _want_ alone time, we want you to stay.” She peers up at her husband. “Right, Jon?”

“Staaaaaay” Jon says, grinning widely. He’s pressed up against Emily’s back so when he sways forward, he pushes them both into Lovett’s space.

“Okay, I’m staying, I’m staying,” Lovett says. “I just thought you might want a few minutes to, you know,” he waved his hand vaguely in their direction. “You don’t need an audience for that.” He shoots for cheeky but falls short. He’s sure that his voice is giving away some strain or insecurity.

“You’re not an audience,” Jon says, tipping his cheek onto Emily’s head. He reaches out and grabs Lovett by the collar, pulling him forward. “You’re—”

What Lovett is, exactly, remains a mystery, because Jon slips his hand behind his neck and kisses him. This kiss is nothing like the one in the restaurant—it’s filthy, open-mouthed and wet, Jon’s tongue slipping between Lovett’s teeth and sliding along his own before his brain has a chance of catching up. 

“Wha—” Lovett says, the word disappearing into Jon’s mouth, and Jon’s only response is to tighten his grip on Lovett’s neck and deepen the kiss. One slim arm winds around his back—Emily—it’s Emily, holding him tight as her husband kisses him. This last piece is apparently all it takes to shut down Lovett’s cognitive functions, because he stops questioning it; instead he grabs a fistful of Jon’s sweaty shirt and pushes closer and kisses him back.

Long minutes later Jon breaks away, kissing a line up Lovett’s cheek and pushing his nose into the skin behind his ear. He kisses Lovett’s neck, his jawbone, his cheek once again, then pulls back to smile at Lovett with half-lidded eyes. “Now I know why I married you,” he says, a low, rumbling laugh in his voice. It’s a joke, a callback to earlier, but Lovett feels it to his toes.

Lovett closes his eyes. _God._ Somewhere far, far below him, his feet are theoretically planted on the floor. Would they move if he told them to? Would they support his weight if he pulled away from the circle of their arms?

“This is, uh,” he clears his throat. “Uh, that was…”

“Should we head back?” Emily asks, interrupting. She’s looking up at Jon, not even asking Lovett’s opinion. It’s fine, really. He’s not sure what noises would come out if he were forced to form a sentence.

“Yeah,” Jon says, and he _is_ looking at Lovett, his thumb sliding along the side of his neck, his eyes dropping down to his mouth. “Yeah, let’s go.”

Jon lets Lovett go when they walk down the alley, lets him tug his hand free and quicken his step a little. He walks ahead of them, listening to their hushed voices, their low laughter. Some flight-or-fight urge rises up in him and he glances down a side street, wondering for one manic moment if he should just _run_. Would they chase him? Would they catch him? What would they do—

Arousal zips through Lovett, sharp and sudden. _Fuck_ , he thinks, imagining Jon snatching him up from behind, pinning him against a warm stone wall until he stopped struggling, until he went limp and pliant. _Good_ , Jon says in his ear, one hand drifting low on his stomach, spreading wide just like he’d done to Emily earlier. _That’s so good_ , _Lovett._

“Lovett?” Jon asks, and Lovett spins around, a hare caught in a trap. “We’re here.”

Lovett looks up. ‘Here,’ it turns out, is their hotel. “Oh,” he exhales. “Right.” Relief and something like disappointment wash over him. He’s honestly looking forward to getting on the plane tomorrow and putting this whole, weird trip behind him. “Okay, well,” he rocks back on his heels, shoving his hands deep in his pockets. “You two have a good—”

“Oh, come up for another drink,” Emily says, her eyes wide and hopeful.

He should say no. He should make his excuses and slide a clean knife through this game, cutting them off. _Remember that time we made out in Rome?_ they’ll joke years down the road, safely removed from this heady, romantic atmosphere that makes him forget about consequences. They’ll forget how drugged they felt, how everything felt permissible and possible, and they’ll shape it into a funny story, something harmless and smoothed of its edges. If he walks away now, Lovett knows, this can all be over.

He can’t take a single step backwards.

“Lovett,” Jon says, his eyes soft and warm. “Come on.”

Lovett comes.

 

—

 

Lovett wakes up to the sound of a someone walking around in his room. It’s too bright and loud—someone is humming and he can hear the shower running. What are all these people doing in his room? He forces his eyes open, expecting to see half a dozen strangers bustling about.

His room is awash in light. It’s also not his room.

Emily is tossing clothes onto the bed in messy piles, muttering to herself as she sorts through them. Lovett lays still, taking account of his aching head and dry mouth, trying to piece together how he wound up here. Dinner. They had dinner. They had a _lot_ of wine. There was music, also, and more wine, and at one point—

Lovett’s eyes fly open, his stomach dropping to the floor as he remembers: a kiss. A real fucking kiss. Jon’s hand on his neck, their mouths sliding together, Lovett pushing close as they swayed together. Lovett got drunk and made out with his _best friend_ on his _honeymoon_ in front of his _wife_ , and somehow wound up crashing in their bed. What kind of _person_ …

Someone knocks on the door and Lovett jerks up, scrambling up the bed. “Oh!” Emily says, eyes brightening when she sees he’s awake. “Good morning!” She jogs over to open the door, letting in a bellhop carrying a silver tray. “Right over here, thanks.”

Lovett tugs the comforter up with him. The bellhop barely glances in his direction, but Lovett still feels as if he’s been caught out by fucking CNN. _Former Obama Speechwriter Ruins Coworker’s Honeymoon, Statement from New Bride Expected Shortly._

Emily signs the bill and tips the bellhop, bending over to examine the order. Lovett’s heart pounds as he watches her. _I made out with your husband. I kissed your husband. Jon put his tongue in my mouth_. It’s washing over him in waves, the visceral memory of Jon’s mouth on his, his arm tight around his back, the way he’d pressed his thumb into the place behind Lovett’s ear, soft at first and then more insistent, until Lovett opened his mouth and kissed him back.

Head pounding, he takes account of his current state: he’s relieved, in a way, to find that he fell asleep fully clothed, even if he feels gross and uncomfortable in his shorts and day-old t-shirt. With shaky legs he shoves off the bed, sending the piles of clothes scattering. Emily makes a small, outraged noise.

“Sorry,” Lovett says, looking blindly at the rumpled bed. “Um. I think I’m gonna—” He thumbs at the door.

He should stand still, make eye contact with Emily and let her—what? Yell at him? Tell him that she’s hurt? She doesn’t look particularly upset, but she has to be, right? If he were a better friend, he’d stay and let her say her piece, take the punishment for his crimes.

“Do you want breakfast?” she asks, already breaking apart a croissant. “I’m not sure what you like, so I got a bunch of stuff.”

He stares at her, waiting for an axe to fall. Or maybe she’s decided to let it go, he considers as he gingerly approaches the couch. After all, they’re heading off on their own trip today, and he won’t be around to mess things up. Maybe she’s decided to take the path of least resistance and _not_ ruin another day of her honeymoon by getting angry with him.

“What—,” Lovett pauses as he sits down, not sure which question he can most safely ask. “What time did we fall asleep?” _What happened last night? What did we do? Why did I stay here last night?_

“Late,” Emily says, stretching her arms behind her back. “We’re going to sleep like babies on the train.” She starts reorganizing the stacks of clothes Lovett had messed up. “Good thing we have a private car.”

“Yeah, that’s nice,” he says, his head full of cotton. He scans the room for his shoes and backpack, discovering that he managed to drop them in three different corners of the room. How…

He tries to remember how he wound up in their room. It’s all in pieces—standing outside their hotel lobby, someone grabbing his hand and tugging, another bottle of wine that definitely got spilled at some point—yes, over there, the dark stain in the carpet, that was when Emily had overfilled her glass because she was laughing too hard—and then it goes blurry, the camera going out of focus and fading to black.

“We’ve got to be at the station in about two hours,” Emily is saying. “We’ll swing by your hotel and grab your bag on the way.”

“Sure,” Lovett says. Then, “what?”

“Unless you wanted to go get it now? You can—”

“On the way?”

“—shower here if you like, but you need to shower, I’m not going to share a train car with you for three hours—”

“A _train?_ ”

“Yeah,” she says, as if it’s obvious. “Way nicer than a bus.”

“I’m flying out today,” Lovett says, deeply confused.

Emily narrows her eyes at him. “No, you’re not. You’re coming with us to Tuscany.”

Lovett stares at her, wondering if she’s speaking in Italian. Not a single word coming out of her mouth is making sense.

“I’m—what?”

“You changed your ticket,” she says in slow, careful words. “Last night.”

“No, I didn’t!” he says, something like panic rising in his throat.

“Check your email.”

Lovett doesn’t want to, because some small, functioning part of his brain knows, somehow, that she’s telling the truth. He’s remembering a moment, a hazy sense memory of Jon hovering over his shoulder as he did something on Emily’s laptop. ( _This is so stupid,_ he thinks he said in a helpless giggle, and Jon had been the one to push his finger down on the mousepad.)

“I didn’t,” he says again, softer, almost a plea, but he’s already pulling up his email app. And there it is, right at the top. _Change to ticket confirmed._ “But—”

“We’re going to have _so much fun_ ,” Emily says, bouncing in place. Lovett stares at her, a claxon going off in his head, blaring  _I KISSED JON, I KISSED JON, I KISSED JON._

Emily is still talking, oblivious to Lovett’s internal chaos. “Hanna texted me last night; she and Tommy are picking up Pundit from the kennel…”

Lovett closes his eyes, trying to imagine Tommy’s reaction to being told that he needs to watch Lovett’s dog because he’s tagging along on the second half of Jon and Emily’s _honeymoon._ He must think Lovett is the most needy, desperate person imaginable. What kind of _person_ with what kind of _boundaries_ —or lack thereof, Lovett amends despairingly...

He wonders how much it would cost to change his tickets back. Actually—he looks at the time, his heart sinking—he wonders if he’d even have time to make his original flight, which is scheduled to leave in just under two hours.

“Oh, my god,” he mutters, sinking back on the couch.

“Are you hungry?” Emily asks, still puttering around the room as she packs up. “Eat some breakfast!” She gestures to the large tray on the coffee table.

Lovett is hungry, in fact. The danishes look good. Maybe he should eat a banana. He’s probably low on potassium right now. He has no idea what potassium is or what purpose it serves, but he feels low on _everything_ at the moment: common sense. Self-preservation. Protein. He picks up a pastry.

Jon comes out of the bathroom a few minutes later, emerging in a cloud of steam with a towel slung low on his hips. The buttery, flaky croissant goes dry in Lovett’s mouth.

“Hey!” Jon says, his eyes lighting up when he sees Lovett. “Good morning.”

With superhuman effort, Lovett manages to swallow his mouthful of bread. “Morning,” he rasps, reaching for his glass of orange juice and taking a big swig. Jon’s abs seem to take up his entire field of vision, even after Lovett looks sharply away, aware that Emily is looking at them.

Lovett watches as they move about the room, easy and relaxed. They speak over each other as they pack, tossing things haphazardly into their various bags. Lovett finds himself tormented by the loose twist holding Jon’s towel up. It’s going to fall down any minute, and then Lovett is going to have to drive his head into a bucket of sand and suffocate himself to death.

“Shower’s all yours,” Jon tells Lovett. “The water pressure is amazing.”

Lovett looks at the clothes in Jon’s hands, and considers staying where he is while Jon drops his towel and gets dressed.

“Okay!” he says, leaping up from the couch and bolting towards the bathroom, slamming the door shut behind him.

He stares at himself in the mirror, trying to get his bearings. What on earth _happened_ last night? What could they possibly have said that convinced him to join them? Or worse—a coil of humiliation springs up in his stomach—had he invited himself? _I wanna come!_ he might’ve said after enough wine, looking at their rented villa on Emily’s phone, his chin propped on her shoulder. _Take me, take meeee_. Had he said it? Had he cloaked his need to be included, to cling to them, disguised it as a joke, said it so many times that the veneer had scraped away? Had they finally taken pity on him, worn down by his pathetic pleas?

Lovett closes his eyes, breathing through his nose as nausea rises in his throat. He thinks about Emily clapping her hands, bouncing up on her toes in excitement like a teenager. He thinks about Jon’s bright, happy grin when he opened the bathroom door to find Lovett in front of him.

_No_ , he thinks, chipping off some of his anxiety through sheer force of will. No, they wanted him to join them. They’re genuinely happy he’s coming. Lovett repeats it to himself, holding their happy, excited faces in his mind, until the tension in his chest breaks apart a little.

It’s honestly a relief to strip off his grimy clothes and stand under the hot spray for several long minutes, but it’s short-lived. He steps out of the shower onto the cold stone tiles, a towel secure around his waist, and realizes he doesn’t have anything to change into. He’s looking warily at the pile of gross, used clothes at his feet, when Jon opens the door without knocking.

“Hey!” Lovett yelps, spinning around. “People are naked!”

Jon looks him up and down, a wry smile on his face. “Not quite,” he says, quirking one eyebrow at Lovett. “Here, you can borrow these,” he says, before Lovett can even muster a response, and thrusts a stack of clothes into his arms. With one last, wide grin, he shuts the door behind him.

_It really wasn’t my fault_ , Lovett writes in the defensive op-ed he’s going to need to compose someday, explaining how he wound up stuffed in a taxi on his way to the train station, a freshly-married couple literally separated on either side of him. _I didn’t mean to do it._

Jon lays an arm over the back of their seats as he leans over to peer at Emily. “Excited?” he asks, smiling at her. Lovett tries to press himself back into his seat.

“ _So_ excited,” Emily says, giddy. “I’ve loved Rome, but _Tuscany_.” She closes her eyes and hums, tipping her head back against the seat. “I just want to eat and drink and ride bikes around the countryside,” she says, reaching out and tangling her fingers with Jon’s. Their hands rest on Lovett’s knee, bouncing as the car speeds over the cobbled roads. “Just us.”

“Can’t wait,” Jon says, slipping his thumb around Lovett’s knee and squeezing it, pressing their hands into his leg. “Just us.”

Lovett fights down an hysterical laugh and sinks lower in his seat, closing his eyes.

 

—

 

Emily falls asleep ten minutes after their train leaves the station, head lolling on Jon’s shoulder, legs stretched out across their bench. Jon sits closest to the door, his feet propped up on the seat next to Lovett, giving Lovett the distinct feeling of being caged in. He shifts in his seat, trying to find a comfortable way to sprawl.

Jon looks up from his phone. “You okay?”

“No, I’ve been kidnapped,” Lovett grumbles, trying to cross his legs without hitting Jon’s ridiculously large feet.

Jon laughs. “Yeah, alright.” He goes back to his phone.

Lovett glares at him, wanting simultaneously to be left alone with his personal trauma, and also to make sure that everyone around him knows how—well, not upset. Disconcerted. Out of sorts. He’s _something_ , and it’s _their fault_ , and they don’t even seem the slightest bit _phased_ by Lovett’s obvious torment. Stupid happy beautiful people, cozy in their train car, not a care in the world.

Jon is smirking at Lovett. “Do you have something you want to talk about?”

“ _No_ ,” Lovett says firmly, eyes snapping back to his book. He shifts again with a sigh, tucking one leg up under his butt.

“Feel free to stretch out,” Jon tells him. “You can put your feet on our seat.”

“I’m fine.”

“Okay,” Jon shrugs.

_Jerk_ , Lovett thinks uncharitably, his leg cramping underneath him. He manages to hold out for another few minutes, but eventually he rolls his eyes and swings his legs down, stretching them out to rest on the seat next to Jon’s hip. Jon, to his credit, doesn’t say a word. He doesn’t even look up.

All his goodwill goes flying out the window a moment later when he drops his hand down onto Lovett’s ankle and leaves it there.

“Uh,” Lovett says.

Jon squeezes his ankle, still reading off his phone. “What’s up?”

In another version of events, Lovett demands answers. _Why am I here?_ he asks, pulling his limbs into his body and forcing them to explain. He makes them say out loud exactly what game they’re playing with him, what role he’s supposed to play, point out where the limits and boundaries are. He makes them name an endpoint, a deadline, so at least he knows when the train is going to go hurtling off the cliff.

Except in that version, Lovett doesn’t get to have Jon’s hand on his ankle, his nails scratching at the soft hair on his calf. He doesn’t have Jon’s soft, indulgent eyes on him, warming him from the inside out.

So Lovett doesn’t say anything. _Yes_ , he notes in his guilty plea. _Yes, I knew. I was complicit._

Jon tightens his grip on his calf, and the train speeds on to its destination.

 

—

 

The sun is reaching its highest point of the afternoon when the taxi drops them off in front of a squat, stone villa in the middle of a sprawling field. Lush greenery springs up in all directions, and in the distance, the land slopes downward to reveal miles of wine country stretching out to the sea. It’s the most beautiful, peaceful setting Lovett has ever seen.

"Holy shit," Jon breathes, and Lovett agrees. 

“Let’s go check it out!” Emily says eagerly, lugging her suitcase behind her. She finds the key under the potted plant, as instructed, and unlocks the heavy wooden door.

Inside everything is terra cotta stone and colorful tiles, with wooden shutters flung open to let in the afternoon sunlight and the cool breeze off the water. The first floor is one large room, with a busy-looking kitchen on one end and a cozy living room on the other, plush furniture gathered around an intimidating stone fireplace.

An overflowing basket sits on the dining table, full of fresh fruits, jars of olive oil, and several bottles of wine painstakingly displayed. Emily picks up the handwritten note. “Mr. and Mrs. Favreau,” she reads with a smile, sending a wink Jon’s way. “Congratulations on your wedding! Please accept this housewarming gift with our compliments. Vera y Antonio.” She paws through the basket, picking out a bar of chocolate and peeling it open. “Oh my god, you have to taste this,” she moans, breaking off squares for Jon and Lovett and holding them up to their lips. “Open up!” she says.

Carefully, Lovett takes the chocolate in his teeth and chews it. He’s sure it’s delicious, but he finds he can’t taste a thing as he watches Emily lean up to lick the chocolate from Jon’s mouth, laughing as he deepens the kiss.

“I’m gonna,” Lovett says, turning away and back again. They’re still kissing. It’s fine. “...go find my room.”

He drags his bag up the narrow wooden stairs and starts peeking behind the doors. There are a few bedrooms, all full of light and bright colors. One glance at the largest room at the end of the hall had been enough to know it wasn’t meant for him—the massive four-poster bed in the center of the room was obviously designed with a happy, passionate couple in mind.

Lovett picks a room on the opposite end of the hall, and hopes it’s far enough.

 

—

 

For dinner Emily makes a decent approximation of cacio e pepe, along with a salad that’s mostly tomatoes, as fresh and juicy as anything Lovett’s ever tasted. They eat on the back patio in the cooling air, watching the sun set over the distant water.

Los Angeles feels a million miles away.

“We should move here,” Lovett says, tipping his chair back with a contented sigh. “Who needs America?”

“You’d get bored in a week,” Jon says, refilling their glasses.

“I wouldn’t. I’d figure out this whole wine business. Become a sommelier. Or is that just in restaurants? Whatever, I’d grow wine and vegetables and learn how to make fresh pasta. Maybe I’ll write a novel.”

“Wow,” Emily says, raising her eyebrows. “I didn’t think we’d be hitting your midlife crises for another few years.”

“Just because you’re _twelve_ —” Lovett starts, but Jon cuts in with, “hey, there’s no ‘crises.’ He’s the only one planning on dropping everything and Eat, Pray, Love-ing his way across the world.”

“Eat, Pray, Lovett,” Emily snorts into her wine glass. “I’d listen to it.”

“This is a great idea,” Lovett says, warming to the bit. “Brilliant political mind abandons everything under Trump administration, travels the world to find hope and promise in other countries.”

“Yeah, but you won’t really leave us,” Jon says. “You couldn’t.”

Lovett looks down at his plate. “Think of all the postcards I could send you. London. Amsterdam. Berlin.”

“You’d abandon our company, and Tommy, and—”

“Maybe a whole Asian tour, through Vietnam—”

“—sorry America, deal with this mess yourselves—”

“—always wanted to go to Australia—hey, I didn’t _cause_ this problem—”

“—we’d have to come find you and drag you home,” Jon says, with a tone of finality. “Not allowed.”

“Pretty sure I don’t need your permission,” Lovett says, but there’s no malice behind it. A warm, pleased feeling is burning in his chest, and he doesn’t feel the need to argue the point further.

They sit on the porch until the sun sets, until a thousand stars are pinpricking the dark sky above them. Finally Emily shivers from her spot in Jon’s lap, and announces that she wants to move inside.

The house is cold from the night air when the get inside, so Jon tugs blankets out of the basket in the living room and Lovett pokes around in the fireplace until—miracle of miracles—he gets a blaze going. He stands in front of it, pleased and proud. Well, there’s this, at least. Even if he spends this entire trip being in their way and ruining their honeymoon, at least he’s built them one cozy fire.

A hand catches his wrist and he’s tugged backwards. He lands on the couch with a grunt, between them. “Good job,” Jon says, throwing a blanket over their laps and effectively trapping Lovett in. Emily hands him his wine and rests her head against his shoulder, letting out a contented sigh.

“This is so nice,” she says softly.

Jon’s hand slides around the back of Lovett’s neck, his thumb rubbing along the side. Lovett stills, a deer in the headlights, and contemplates throwing off the blanket and running upstairs to his room. Does the door even lock? What, Lovett considers manically, would be their reaction if he shut himself away for three days and claimed to be sick? Would it be worse than whatever is going to happen if Jon keeps touching him like this?

_Did we ever tell you about how our honeymoon was ruined because our friend at the time mistook casual affection for something it clearly wasn’t?_ Emily and Jon tell some faceless people years in the future.

Jon tightens his hand on Lovett’s neck, and suddenly Lovett is back in that last night in Rome. A sweaty dance floor, pounding base music, and Jon tugging Lovett in by the back of his neck, smiling down at him from an unbearably close distance...leaning down…

Jon’s lips land on the side of Lovett’s neck, and he bolts upright.

“Shh,” Jon says, kissing behind his ear, his lips soft and gentle on the line of his jaw. “You’re okay, it’s just us.”

That is—Lovett swallows, his heart jackrabbiting in his throat. Jon lifts his other hand, pressing two fingers into his jumping pulse point. “You’re nervous,” he says, rubbing soothing circles on his throat, trailing down to his collarbone. “Don’t be.”

“Don’t—you’re—” Lovett breathes in, sharp and shaky. “I’m not nervous.”

Lovett feels the vibrations of Jon’s laugh. “Sure you’re not,” he says, sucking a mark into Lovett’s neck. “Emily, is he?”

“Definitely,” Emily says, and Lovett squeezes his eyes tight. “But he shouldn’t be. You’re going to take such good care of him.”

Jon lets out a low moan, nuzzling under Lovett’s jaw. His stubble rasps against Lovett’s throat. He imagines the red marks he’ll find in the morning, obvious and, he doesn’t know, _damning?_ _Look at how easy he was for it_ , the hickey Jon is currently sucking into his neck will say. _How slutty he was for you, how pathetic and desperate._

“Lo,” Jon says, his tongue scraping rough over his Adam’s apple. “You’re so…” Lovett hisses, flinching away when Jon works his teeth around the round bump, but Emily slides her hand into his hair and tugs, keeps his neck exposed and vulnerable.

“Let him,” she murmurs, her lips grazing the shell of his ear. “You want this, don’t you?”

Tears prick at Lovett’s eyes as a wave of embarrassment washes over him. “Yes,” he says hoarsely, ashamed of being found out, of being so _obvious_. Because god, yes, _yes_ , Lovett wants Jon, he wants whatever small pieces he can get. Fine, haul him in front of the high court, he’ll admit his sins. All of them.

Like the fact that every time Emily tugs on his hair, he gets harder. What kind of psychobabble playground bullshit...

Her cheeks are flushed and her eyes are bright and focused. He’s not sure how she fits in, but he knows he wants her here—watching him, touching him, scratching his scalp like she’s doing right now. He jolts, hips pushing off the couch. “Fuck,” he says, eyes fluttering when Jon shoves down on his thighs, pins him in place. Emily bites her lip and tightens her fingers in his hair again. “Emily,” he says helplessly, her name coming unplugged as if she pulled it out of his throat herself. “Please—”

Emily twists to face him, pushing up on her knees. Her hands land on the couch on either side of his face, framing him. Caging him. “What do you want, honey?” she asks, but Lovett doesn’t _know._ He doesn’t _know_ what he wants, he only knows that he _wants_ , with every cell in his body. His skin is about to fly off with how much he needs— _something_. Anything.

Emily looks at him and then, slow enough that he has time to react (although how, how on earth, was he ever supposed to react to _this_ ), bends in and kisses him. Her mouth slides over his, wet and open and messy, and she moans when he lifts an arm to pull her closer, press up against her. He can taste the wine on her tongue when she slides it against the roof of his mouth.

“Fuck,” Jon exhales roughly. Lovett doesn’t break the kiss but his attention shifts, cataloging Jon’s heavy breathing and the large hand that slides down his throat, over his chest, squeezing and rubbing along the way. It’s a possessive touch and Lovett pushes into it, hips hitching when Jon squeezes his pec. “I can’t believe this.”

Lovett starts laughing into Emily’s mouth, and soon they’re all giggling, falling into each other in a tangle of limbs. “Oh, _you_ can’t believe this?” he asks incredulously, twisting to grin up at Jon. “I’m pretty sure you planned this whole thing.”

Jon shakes his head, still laughing. “Total improvisation,” he says, and dips his head down to kiss the smile on Lovett’s mouth.

There’s a huge master bed upstairs, Lovett remembers, rich and romantic and plush, but Jon pushes Lovett onto his back and climbs over him, straddling his hips. They’re all overheated—whose _fucking_ idea had it been to light a fire on a summer night in the Mediterranean? Lovett feels like he’s sweated through every article of clothing he has on. He can see moisture forming on Jon’s forehead, pooling in the dip of his throat, and Lovett's mouth goes dry, imagining fastening his mouth over that spot and drinking every drop down.

Jon exhales and bends down, kissing Lovett. “You are—” he says, rubbing his face down Lovett’s neck, biting at the soft skin there, “—so—”, but Lovett doesn’t want to hear the rest of that sentence, so he hauls Jon back up and kisses him again, pushing his hands under his sweaty, sticky shirt and peeling it up. He slides his hands over Jon’s back, the skin tacky and hot, but he needs more of it, he needs to spread his hands everywhere, he needs to get this _stupid shirt off_.

A pair of hands appear and help tug Jon’s shirt over his head, pulling it off his arms when it tangles there. Once he’s freed, Emily pulls his face up to hers—Lovett forgets to breathe as they make out, Emily tangling her hands in Jon’s hair and panting into his mouth, even as Jon straddles Lovett, one hand planted on Lovett’s pec to support himself. For a moment Lovett feels like a prop, a piece of furniture, something to be used, and his dick grows even heavier, trapped under Jon’s ass.

“Fuck, okay,” Jon says, pulling away from Emily, who drops down onto the carpet to watch. Jon barely pauses for a breath before he’s dropping down. Lovett groans into his mouth, his thighs stretching as Jon shoves himself between them, driving up again, and _again_ , pushing Lovett halfway up the couch. “I can’t believe you’re—letting us—” he says, biting down on Lovett’s shoulder. Even through his shirt Lovett can feel the skin split, knows he’s going to have a mark there for weeks.

“I can’t really—ah!” Lovett cries out as Jon shoves his shirt up and bites down on the meat of his chest. “ _Fuck_ ,” he hisses, clenching the back of Jon’s neck to hold him close. “You’re a fucking maniac.” Jon laughs against his skin, licking the tender spot he’d just bitten.

“Yeah,” Emily says, and Lovett turns his head to face her. Her skin is flushed and sweat-damp, her chest rising rapidly. She’s turned on. Lovett wonders how she’ll be involved tonight, if she’ll want Jon to take care of her next. He wonders if Jon will be able to fuck both of them, one after the other, still slick from one as he slides into the next. His thighs seize up, snapping around Jon’s hips as he tries to rub himself up against him.

“Hey, hey there,” Jon says, pressing Lovett’s hips down onto the couch and kissing a line down his stomach. Lovett tries to buck free when Jon dips his tongue into his belly button, but Jon manages to hold him down. “Jesus, Lovett,” Jon mutters, biting his side. “Tell me what you want.”

“What I—” Lovett gasps, his eyes wide. “What I _want?_ Are you out of ideas?” He props himself up on his elbows, a laugh rising in his chest. “After all of your shit tonight, Favreau, you’re going to _haha and then what?_ me at the—the fifty-yard line, or—you know, right before the goal is scored—”

“You’re doing this to me on purpose,” Jon says, a tormented look on his face. “You’re trying to get me to argue with you about sports references so I’ll forget about what I’m—”

“I’m really, _really_ not,” Lovett says, squeezing his legs around Jon’s sides. “I’m just saying, I think it’s pretty clear what I want.” His statement hangs in the air, waiting for a response.

“Jon,” Emily says, and they both look over at her. “I wanna watch you blow him.”

It’s as if she lit the room on fire. Jon breathes out through his nose and presses his forehead into Lovett’s stomach. Lovett can feel him shaking between his thighs, and if he had any ability to move his limbs he might reach down for him. Lovett's achingly hard in his shorts—it’s unmissable, obvious to all three of them. He’s rock-hard and Emily wants Jon to blow him. _How did this happen?_ Tommy asks in his mind, judgmental and disbelieving, and he responds,  _Buddy, if you think I have any idea_....

“Fuck,” Jon says, blowing out a breath, and then everything is moving in a hundred directions at once. Jon squats back on his heels and drags Lovett back down the couch, pushing his legs wide as he reaches for his belt with one hand. Lovett’s vision tunnels down, watching as Jon gets his fly open. With one tug he pulls Lovett’s pants and underwear halfway down his legs, his dick springing free. It’s red and slick—Lovett almost feels embarrassed by how hard he is, how _demanding_ his cock looks bobbing in front of Jon’s face. “Emily,” Jon says, his voice hoarse. He takes Lovett’s cock in his hand and tugs.

Lovett stops breathing, his field of vision shrinking down to Jon, cradled between his thighs, long fingers wrapped around his leaking dick. Jon thumbs through the slick at the top, his nail catching, and Lovett shudders through his whole body.

“Do you need help?” Emily asks Jon. “Want me to tell you what to do?”

Jon chokes out a laugh. “Let me give it a shot first, okay?” he says, and she settles agreeably in her spot, arms folded under her chin on the couch. No one asks Lovett his thoughts. It’s probably for the best, since his entire brain seems to be flickering off, and on, and off _again_ , right now, as Jon lowers his head and takes the head of Lovett’s dick in his mouth and—

It turns out Jon doesn’t need any instructions. He’s unpracticed and clumsy, but his mouth is hot and wet and eager around Lovett, and he’s sucking him down as if he’s never going to have another chance. “Jon,” Lovett rasps, clenching his fists at his side so he doesn’t grab Jon’s head with both hands. “Fuck, just—just like that—”

Jon slides down further and chokes around Lovett’s dick, too fast and too eager and holy _shit_ , if that isn’t enough to make Lovett just about come right then. Jon swallows him down again. Lovett can’t stop himself from craning up to watch. When, after all, is he _ever_ going to have the chance to see this again: Jon’s mouth stretched around his dick, spit and slick making a mess of his lips and chin, eyes closed as he moves his head up and down. Lovett wants to push up with his hips, drive his dick into the soft recesses of his mouth, make him choke on it again. He wants to make sure Jon _remembers_ this, remembers how Lovett’s cock filled up his mouth, how it pushed into his throat and robbed him of breath for a moment.

“How is he?” Emily asks, pushing up for a closer look. “He’s so determined, when he eats me out, like he—”

“Like it’s his job,” Lovett groans, flopping back onto the couch. Jon pushes his legs wider and slides his lips down Lovett’s cock, sucking his balls gently into his mouth. “Oh, _Jesus!_ ” Lovett cries out.

“Oh, he likes it when I do that to him,” Emily says, a wicked flash in her eyes. “Baby, you really pay attention.”

It’s too much. It’s too much to imagine Emily doing this to Jon—Jon losing his mind just like Lovett is now, his head thrown back, his long, perfect body spread across their big bed. He’s burning up from the inside.

“I can’t wait for you to do this to him,” Emily whispers in Lovett’s ear, and his entire body seizes up as he comes.

Jon swallows as much as he can—which is to say, not much at all—but he still looks inordinately proud as he crawls up Lovett’s body, kissing a line up his stomach. Lovett flops limp against the couch, unable to do more than twitch as Jon bites his nipple and tugs. “Jon,” he says hoarsely, but Jon ignores him, licking a path towards Lovett’s other nipple.

The world swims in front of Lovett’s eyes as Jon pushes his face into his neck and spreads his hands over Lovett’s heaving ribcage. His grip is tight—Lovett can feel Jon's racing pulse through his fingertips as he pulls back. He presses into Lovett’s stomach with his thumbs, breathing heavily as he looks him up and down with a wild look in his eyes. Lovett must look ridiculous, he realizes hazily. His pants are halfway down his ankles and his shirt is rucked up his chest, but Jon looks him over like he’s a feast, like he’s a feast Jon _prepared_. He looks proud, and satisfied, and _hungry_ , all at the same time.

“Stop looking at me,” Lovett mumbles, shoving at Jon with a limp arm.

“Not a chance,” Jon says, dropping down again to kiss Lovett. It’s dirty and deep and consuming, Lovett’s taste sharp and strong on his tongue. When Jon pulls back and leans over to kiss Emily, he knows she must be tasting him, too. She moans into his mouth, pushing up on her knees for a better angle.

Lovett’s too wrung-out to feel anything close to turned on, but he has a feeling he’s going to be thinking about this moment a lot over the coming weeks and months.

He’s so monumentally fucked.

“Emily,” Jon mutters against her lips. “I’m—I need to—”

“Yeah, me too,” Emily says, sounding more frantic than Lovett’s ever heard her. “C’mere,” she says, grasping Jon’s shoulders and tugging.

Jon scrambles over Lovett and lands on the carpet between Emily’s thighs as she spreads them. “Do you need—”

“God, no,” she laughs, almost hysterical. “I’ve been ready for hours.”

“Fuck,” Jon says, fumbling with his fly and flipping the skirt of her dress up. She’s wearing something lacy, light pink and probably pretty expensive, but Jon doesn’t hesitate a second before snapping the band and ripping them away, driving into her in one motion. They both groan in unison, Emily arching up off the rug in a perfect bow as Jon slides out and in again.

It’s over almost as soon as they started. They fuck hard and frantic, but there’s something familiar about it as well—they move together like water, easy and fluid. It’s obvious that they’ve done this a thousand times. It strikes Lovett all over again that he’s a guest here, a temporary participant.

“Fuck, baby,” Emily gasps when she comes. Her eyes flutter shut and her entire body clenches up. Lovett had thought before about what Jon might look like when he came—had imagined it in a hundred dreams he’d never admit to anyone. But he’d never once considered this—how Emily’s face would transform, how her legs would shake and her voice would disappear into a high note, and the long, sweet sigh she’d let out as she came down from her climax.

Lovett tears his eyes away from her and finds himself locking eyes with Jon, who’d been watching Lovett watching Emily. “She’s something else, right?” Jon asks, breathing heavily, his entire body strained and taut. He’s sweat-slick, glowing in the dying firelight. Lovett can see every muscle in his arms work as he fights to hold himself back.

“Yeah,” Lovett nods, his heart pounding. “You both are.”

Jon closes his eyes, dropping his head to Emily’s chest with a groan, and he rolls his hips twice—three times—and then stops. She holds him by the back of his neck, muttering soft, soothing noises as he shakes against her, pressing her mouth to the sweaty crown of his head.

After a long minute Jon rolls off, landing on his back between them with a soft moan. Emily curls into his side, her eyes already drifting shut. Lovett lays on the couch, unsure what he’s supposed to do now. He could pull his pants up, slip upstairs and into his big, empty room. Would he sleep? Would he shower, scrub this night from his skin? Or would he crawl into bed, sticky and sore, and replay everything over and over in his head until the morning?

Jon’s hand lands on his wrist. Lovett looks over, surprised, but his eyes are closed and his face is already relaxing into sleep. On his other side Emily breathes, even and deep, her face pressed against his shoulder. Lovett shifts, tugging his shorts up, and Jon’s hand tightens on his arm. He might as well close his eyes, Lovett decides, letting himself grow heavy on the couch. Just for a few minutes.

 

—

 

Lovett wakes up shoved halfway between the couch cushions, his back twisted in a way that he knows he’s going to pay for all day. He sits up with a groan, trying to stretch as he puts his feet on the soft carpet in the hopes that his muscles won’t spasm completely as soon as he tries to stand up. Rubbing his face with both hands, he realizes that the room is silent—silent, and empty.

He stares at the bare rug, wondering when they went upstairs. A few hours after they first fell asleep? A few minutes? He can’t blame them for wanting their big bed instead of the unyielding floor. Of course they’d prefer to steal away into their room, close the door, and spend a few peaceful hours wrapped around each other.

It would’ve been nice if they’d woken him up, too, Lovett thinks, a bitter taste in his mouth. He would’ve preferred to sleep in a nice bed, too. His _own_ bed. Not theirs. He doesn’t even like cuddling—sharing a bed with two people sounds like a nightmare.

He slumps onto the couch and looks over his shoulder at the stairs. He supposes he could go upstairs—pee and shower and change, maybe drop face-down onto his bed and sleep away the morning—but that would require walking by the closed door of their master bedroom, and the thought of it turns his stomach and feet to lead. _Quiet Please! Happy Couple Sleeping!_

Rolling his eyes, Lovett shoves onto his feet and heads for the hall bathroom.

He’s washing his hands when he hears a door open and slam, and he comes out to find Emily and Jon in running clothes, sweaty and laughing in the kitchen.

“Hey!” Emily says, her face brightening. “You’re awake!”

“We went for a run,” Jon says, pointing out the obvious. “We would’ve asked you, but you looked so _cute_ sleeping there.” He says this last bit with a wink. Lovett blushes, remembering saying the same thing about them when they’d fallen asleep before his speech.

“Plus this guy needed a workout,” Emily says. “He’s too old to spend the night sleeping on the floor.”

A block of tension dissolves in Lovett’s stomach, and he tries to fight down a smile. _Stop it_ , he tells himself firmly, scrubbing a hand over his face. _It doesn’t_ mean _anything, they just didn’t wake up until morning._

Jon laughs at Emily, pressing up against her from behind and caging her against the counter. “You didn’t seem to have any complaints about my age last night,” he says, biting her neck. She wriggles in his arms, her laugh turning high and breathy as one of Jon’s hands disappears below the counter.

“Okay!” Lovett says loudly, spinning on his heel. “I’m gonna go shower.”

“Oh, great idea,” Jon says, dropping a kiss on Emily’s shoulder and pushing off the counter. “Let’s go.”

“You need to see our shower,” Emily says. “It’s the most indulgent thing I’ve ever seen.”

“Um,” Lovett manages, but Jon crowds behind him and shoves him toward the stairs, so Lovett has no choice but to let himself be herded up the stairs into their bedroom. The big bed is made up—un-slept-in—but Lovett barely has a moment to glance in its direction before Emily is tugging him towards their ensuite, turning back to face him with a smug smile on her face.

“Holy _shit_ ,” Lovett breathes, looking around the room. “This is larger than my first apartment in DC.” It’s huge, and gorgeous. Delicately painted tiles cover the floor and walls, and a huge marble bathtub takes the place of honor in the bay windows, but Lovett’s eye is drawn to the glassed-in shower on the far end of the bathroom. With two built-in benches and three shower heads, his imagination is already going into overdrive. “I think I could park my car in here,” he says, even as he fights down visions of being pressed up against the glass, or bending over one of those benches as Jon works into him from behind.

“Not bad, right?” Jon says, stripping down. He’s hot. He’s so fucking hot. Of course he is—he’s been going to 6 am Barry’s Bootcamp for months, no wonder he’s perfectly comfortable to stand nude in front of Lovett. He should be nude in front of _everyone_. He should walk down the streets like that, show off his hard work and god-given talents. Everyone, Lovett thinks, feeling crazed even in his own head, should get to see Jon Favreau’s cock. “Lovett?”

His eyes fly up, meeting Jon’s amused, pleased face. “Like what you see?” Jon asks, smirking.

“I mean,” Lovett says, rocking back on his heels and trying for nonchalance. “I’m not gonna write a poem about it.”

Jon laughs, throwing his head back, and pads across the cavernous room to the shower. “Okay, but your ass is definitely ode-worthy,” Lovett calls after him. Jon winks at him and steps into the shower, fiddling with the handles.

Emily strips off her clothes with little fanfare, smacking Lovett on the ass on her way to the shower. “Hurry up,” she says, flipping her hair over her shoulder. “I’m not sure how patient he’s feeling this morning.” It sounds like a threat more than a promise. Lovett wants to pause everything, demand a full accounting of everything that might happen to him as soon as he steps into that shower. He’s 35 years old—one surprise move and he might fall and break a hip.

Jon swings Emily up into his arms as soon as she steps into the shower, making her squeal. “Lovett!” he shouts over the water, looking right at him over Emily’s shoulder. “Get your ass in here!”

“Patience is a virtue,” he calls weakly, but he tugs his clothes off with fumbling hands and heads towards the shower. Steam is already filling the room, large as it is, but he can see them clearly through the glass, moving against each other under the water. “Are you actually getting clean, or—”

Lovett doesn’t get a chance to finish his sentence, because as soon as he reaches the glass door Jon seizes him by the arms, yanking him in and pushing him up against the tile wall. “Oof!” Lovett grunts, but then Jon’s mouth is on him. He's trapped, pressed against the wall by the entire length of Jon's body, his mouth demanding and slow, and his _hands_ , which are somehow _every-fucking-where_. “Jon,” he tries to say, but it’s swallowed up, and anyways, Jon probably would’ve ignored him, too preoccupied with squeezing and touching and rubbing every living inch of Lovett’s skin.

Jon peels Lovett’s thighs open and pushes between them, his cock pushing into the split of Lovett’s ass as he tries to shove him halfway up the wall. Lovett manages to hang onto his balance by wrapping his arms around Jon’s back and teetering on his big toes, but Jon keeps moving, sliding his cock along the seam of Lovett’s ass as he stutters his hips up. It’s an insane, maddening, cruel tease—the head of Jon’s cock bumping against his hole every once in awhile before skittering past, never even pressing in where Lovett needs it the most.

Lovett groans, panting into Jon’s neck, impossibly turned on after what feels like _five fucking seconds_. He wants to spread his thighs wider to give Jon’s cock more access—they’d overbalance in an instant and probably hit their heads and die, but it would be worth it.

Emily presses up against Jon’s back, kissing the knobs of his spine and sliding her hands down his arms. She reaches low and must do _something_ with her fingers, because suddenly Jon moans into Lovett’s mouth and shoves his hips up, pushing Lovett halfway up the wall in one thrust. Lovett cries out, scrambling for purchase with his suddenly airborne feet, but Jon keeps him securely pressed between the tiles and his body, holding him up with barely any noticeable effort.

“I’ve got you,” Jon says, panting wetly against his neck. “Holy shit, _Em_.”

Emily laughs softly, sucking the water from his shoulder blades as her hand continues to work out of Lovett’s sight.

“What’s she doing?” Lovett asks, suddenly desperate to know, and unable to crane his neck far enough to see. Emily grins at him.

“Tell him, Jon,” she says softly, biting his arm.

Jon pushes his face further into Lovett’s neck, as if he might hide in the crook of his shoulder, and Lovett feels a profound tenderness crack open in his chest. Lovett is hanging onto Jon’s neck for dear life, one slip away from cracking his head open on beautiful Italian tile, and he still feels the sudden overwhelming need to protect _Jon_. “Hey,” he says, kissing the wet crown of Jon’s head and squeezing his thighs around his waist. “Jon, tell me. What’s she doing to you?” He runs his fingers through his hair, scraping his nails against the base of his scalp.

“She’s—” Jon shudders against him. “She’s got her fingers inside of me,” he says, almost whispering. “Fuck, Lovett, it feels amazing. I can’t wait to do this to you.”

Lovett groans, bucking up against Jon’s stomach. “God—” he says, seeking out Jon’s mouth again and kissing him messily. “You can’t—”

“I want to—”

“—just _say_ things like—”

“Gonna work you open,” Jon says, panting against Lovett’s mouth. He’s rolling his hips up, fast and uncoordinated. “Get you ready for me, begging me to fill you up.”

“No,” Lovett sobs, not sure what he’s saying no _to_ , what he could possibly be denying or refusing. He wants anything _, everything_ , Jon will give him, including this—bucking against him, no rhythm, not enough friction, too messy and slick to get anywhere close to what Lovett needs. He wants to cry from frustration, to _beg_ for Jon to wrap a tight hand around his cock, but Jon’s hands stay firmly planted on the tile behind Lovett’s head. “ _Please_ ,” he whimpers, clinging to him.

Jon jerks against him. “Just like that,” he says, his cock sliding against Lovett’s ass. “Begging so pretty, just like that.”

“Jon,” Lovett says, feeling like he’s going to fly out of his skin any moment. “God, _please_.”

“What is it? What do you need, baby?”

Lovett clenches up, rocking against Jon. “Your hand,” he says. “I need you to touch me.”

Jon kisses him, a reward, and pulls back from the wall, holding Lovett up as he gets his shaky legs under him. “Okay,” he says, kissing him again, his mouth and tongue slippery against Lovett’s. “Okay, whatever you need, we’re going to take care of you.”

Lovett wants to cry, holding Jon close, his arms tight around his broad, firm back. His hips shove up into Jon’s leg—he’s so desperate, so close, that he’s about to just rub himself off against Jon’s strong thigh, right there in the shower. _Might as well_ , he thinks feverishly, chasing that perfect, sweet pressure. _Might as well show them how pathetic I am_.

“Hey, hey, not yet,” Jon says, pushing Lovett back into the wall and holding himself clear with his arms. Lovett lets out a soft sob, his hips jerking into the air, and flushes deep when Jon shoots a wicked grin at Emily. “Look how badly he needs it,” he says to her, smoothing a hand over Lovett’s cheek, his thumb dragging along his lower lip. “God, he’s pretty like this, isn’t he?”

“Gorgeous,” Emily says, stepping up next to Lovett and kissing his shoulder. She presses herself against his side, trailing one hand down his chest, spreading her fingers wide over his stomach. Lovett chokes, closing his eyes as her fingers drift dangerously low. “I wonder if you'd let me jerk you off like this,” she says, kissing the tender spot behind his ear. “I wonder if you need it that badly.”

_I do_ , Lovett wants to say. He’d let her, he’d _beg_ her, he’d promise the world if she’d reach down and wrap her small hand around him, jerk him off while Jon hovered over him like he’s doing right now. He’s already broken so many rules for them, what’s one more? What’s one more unshakeable tenant of his identity falling to dust at their feet? He’ll surrender it all to them, if they keep looking at him like this, if they keep touching him.

They won’t, of course. He knows this, even as Jon kisses him again, even as they shut off the water and draw him out of the shower, into their bedroom, into their big bed. They won’t keep touching him, not forever, not even for very much longer. He’s dumping his life savings in a pyramid scheme—knowing that it’s going to end badly, even as some small part of him thrills with the hope that maybe _he’ll_ be special, maybe _he’ll_ be the one who has everything work out exactly as he’d want.

“What do you want?” Jon whispers against his lips, pushing Lovett’s legs open and settling between them. “Tell me.”

“Just—you,” Lovett manages, tears prickling in his eyes. He closes them when Jon kisses him again, his hand slipping between them to reach Lovett’s hole. Lovett sighs against Jon’s mouth when he pushes into him with one finger. He's not even sure when Jon found lube, but he deeply doesn't give a shit.

“Perfect,” Jon says, breathing heavily. “God, you look perfect.”

Emily stretches out next to Lovett, gently petting his hair. “So good for him, aren’t you?” she asks.

“Yes,” Lovett nods, fevered, and Jon pushes a second finger in. “ _Yes_ ,” he says again, voice hitching.

It goes hazy from there. Jon works him open, kissing his mouth and wet cheeks, nuzzling beneath his jaw—they’re both speaking, whispering in his ear, laughing softly at each other and kissing over him—hands are stroking down his chest, scratching his sides and over his soft nipples, rubbing them into hard little beads, tugging on them and making him cry out—someone kisses him again, swallowing his cries and his little moans, and then—then—there—

Jon’s cockhead bumps against his hole, nudging in. Lovett tries to lift his hips, spread his legs wider, tries to fucking _will_ his hole to suck Jon’s cock in, but Jon holds himself there, a tease, a torment, watching as Lovett fruitlessly tries to fuck himself down on him. “Jon!” Lovett groans, reaching for him.

“Ask him,” Emily says, muffled, sucking a mark into his neck, digging her nails into his shoulder. “Sweetie, ask him for it.”

“Fuck me,” Lovett says, managing, somehow, to keep his eyes on Jon’s face, so he can see the way it softens and then sharpens, a grin breaking open like the sun as he lets go. He drives into Lovett in one devastating slide, both of them hissing when Jon is fully seated. “Oh my god,” Lovett says weakly, hands pawing at Jon’s neck and shoulders, trying to draw him down. “Fuck, Jon, you feel—”

“Lo—” Jon groans, dropping down, pressing him into the mattress with his full weight. Lovett feels the air rush out of him. “Jesus, I can’t believe we haven’t—”

“Jon, fuck me, _please_ ,” Lovett says, gripping him with white-knuckled fingers.

“For years, could’ve been doing this for years—”

“—need it—”

“—filling you up every day,” Jon gasps, and finally, _finally_ starts moving again, slowly rolling his hips and then pushing up on his knees, tugging Lovett’s hips into the air, driving fast and hard and frantic.

Lovett flashes, suddenly, on watching Jon and Emily last night—how Jon had gripped her hips, just like this, and pulled her towards him, just like _this_ —how he’d panted as he drove into her, animalistic and rough and _hard_ , so fucking hard, like he was trying to split her open. He gasps, trying to hang on as Jon drives them halfway up the bed.

“Fuck, Lovett,” Jon says, his voice rough, and Lovett closes his eyes, trying to ignore everything but the slide of Jon’s cock inside him, hitting him exactly right, giving him exactly what he needs. He doesn’t _need_ anything but this.

“Lovett,” Jon says, kissing Lovett’s closed eyelids. “Is it good? Tell me this is good for you.”

“It’s good, it’s _good_ ,” Lovett says, his voice high and weak, but he keeps his eyes closed. “You’re fucking amazing, you’re the Greek god of sex, is this what you wanted—” Emily is laughing next to him, delighted and loud.

“Shut up, shut _up_ ,” Jon says with a laugh, biting Lovett’s jaw. “God, you’re killing me.”

_Fair play_ , Lovett thinks blurrily, pushing up with his hips, trying to find a deeper angle. Jon reaches down with shaking fingers, pressing at his rim, rubbing at the stretched-out skin where his cock is sliding past. “Fuck,” Lovett groans, tilting his hips, and— because he can’t stop himself, because he never could—he opens his eyes.

Jon exhales shakily when Lovett blinks up at him through his wet lashes, gripping Lovett’s biceps and dropping down for a kiss. “I'm so close,” he mumbles, his voice oddly mournful, pushing his cheek against Lovett’s jaw. “I don’t want it to be over.”

Lovett turns his face, bumping against Emily’s shoulder, and he nudges into her warm skin, chasing some sort of comfort. His entire body is trembling, shaking like a leaf, Jon impaled inside him and scraping him raw. Emily turns into Lovett’s side, grabbing his face in her hands and kissing him, holding him in place, grounding him as Jon’s pace speeds up. He fucks Lovett with deep, panting grunts; pushing up on his knees again and bending Lovett almost in half as he fucks into him.

“I’m gonna—” Lovett says, his voice thin as a reed. “Emily, I’m going to—”

“Jon,” Emily says, kissing Lovett’s cheek and jaw tenderly. “Jon, baby, you can touch him now.”

Jon’s hand is on him before she’s even done talking, and it’s like a starburst goes off behind Lovett’s eyes, bright and nuclear. He doesn’t even realize he’s come, doesn’t recognize that shaking, devastating, sparkling _event_ as an orgasm until Jon sweeps his hand through the mess on Lovett’s stomach and wraps his sticky fingers around Lovett’s cock. He shouts, his entire body clenching and squirming, and Jon releases him with a low laugh, lifting his fingers to Lovett’s mouth.

“Shh, it’s okay,” he says, pressing two fingers against Lovett’s lower lip, dragging his mess along it. “Just hang on a little while longer, okay?”

“What—” Lovett asks weakly, but Jon is already moving again.

“Just—you’re perfect, like that,” he pants, driving into Lovett. “Taking it for me—”

“Okay,” Lovett says, his head flopping back, his body heavy and limp on the mattress. He feels empty, scooped out, just a body free for use. His eyes close as Jon’s pace picks up again, as he folds him up in his arms, lifting him halfway off the mattress as he drives into him. He breathes in and out. Why not just drift away, leave his body behind for Jon and Emily to use as they want? It’s not going to be any good to him after this—nothing is ever going to measure up again.

“Look at me,” Jon whispers, kissing him, and Lovett does. Of course he does. When has he ever denied Jon anything?

Jon smiles, a brilliant, heartbreaking thing, and then he drives into Lovett one last time and comes.

Lovett’s chest hitches, but he wraps himself tightly around Jon, kissing him back for everything he’s worth. It might not be much, but it’s what he has, and it belongs to Jon.

 

—

 

They sleep away most of the morning, save for an interlude where Jon rolls Emily onto her back and eats her out, pulling orgasm after orgasm out of her until she pushes him away with shaking arms. He kisses her hipbone and dips his tongue into her belly button, smirking up at her as she wipes her mess from his chin.

“Good work,” she grins at him, biting her lip. Lovett watches them as they look at each other, some silent communication passing between them, feeling like an intruder in a private moment.

“My pleasure,” Jon says finally, nuzzling her breast. He falls asleep there a few moments later, Emily’s hand curled around the back of his head.

Lovett knows he should take this as his cue, leave them to themselves, let them know that he doesn’t expect too much.

Emily’s eyes drift shut, a small smile on her face. Jon makes a soft noise, his hand flexing on her hip.

Lovett stays.

 

—

 

They head into town for lunch, riding rickety bikes down the dusty paths, the hot sun beating down on their backs. They eat at a small fish restaurant overlooking the water. Emily stretches her arms above her head with a happy sigh. She leans back in her seat, taking a sip of her Aperol spritz cocktail and dropping her feet into Lovett’s lap.

“You look like a German actress on holiday in the 30s,” Lovett says, pointing at her wide-brimmed hat and giant sunglasses.

Emily tilts her head at him. “Are you saying I’m a Nazi?”

“Not a Nazi, but your movies are gonna take on a morbid tone when future generations watch them,” he says with a shrug. Emily kicks his knee.

“Well, at least we know why I’m vacationing in Italy,” she says.

“Okay, let’s not talk about the Nazis on our honeymoon,” Jon interrupts, pinching Lovett’s side. “No Trump, no Nazis, no climate change, no impending food shortage—”

“Great, all those problems are now solved, all we had to do was avoid thinking about them—”

“Only happy things,” Jon continues loudly, ignoring Lovett. “This is a happy week.”

“Okay, Pharrell,” Emily laughs, twisting to face him. “What do you want to talk about?”

“I want to talk about how beautiful you are,” he says immediately, with an easy confidence Lovett has never been able to even approximate. “Even if you are a Nazi sympathizer.”

“So close, and then you ruined it,” Emily sighs. “Would a Nazi sympathizer have married a handsome Jewish man?” She reaches out and pats Lovett’s chest, hooking her finger in the collar of his t-shirt.

“Hey, don’t ‘some of my best husbands are Jewish’ me,” Lovett cracks, his throat suddenly dry. “I’m not going to be your get out of jail free card.” Emily laughs, stroking his collarbone with two fingers, wriggling her feet in his lap.

He wonders how long they’re going to keep this joke up. Until they leave Tuscany? Will Emily keep the gag going on the flight, making him sit next to her in business class, asking the flight attendant for a second blanket for her “husband”? Or worse—the thought occurs suddenly to him, his stomach clenching with dread and anxiety—will they bring it up indefinitely, making sly references for the rest of their lives? _He’s nice, but is he second husband material?_ Jon will say when Lovett introduces him to the nice guy he’ll be dating—sometime, somehow, eons in the future—and he’ll mean it as a funny inside joke, but it’ll be a hook in Lovett’s gut, yanking him back to this week, this town, this moment.

How on earth is Lovett ever supposed to bring someone home—well, not home, he knows it’s not bringing someone _home_ , whatever—and be reminded each time that he had this once? _Here’s_ _my pot roast_ , Lovett imagines himself saying, holding out a casserole dish with its meager offering, while Jon and Emily nod politely and then point out the filet mignon on their own plates.

They wander after lunch. It’s a small town, with just a few shops, but they find an open-air market and buy vegetables and fresh pasta from an old woman who speaks barely enough English to complete the transaction. There are a number of vendors hawking their wares on the street, selling books and second-hand clothes and cheap jewelry.

Emily spots a teenager selling art on the sidewalk and drags them over, flipping through the pieces. They’re not particularly good pieces, but the colors are bright and vibrant, and Lovett can recognize the town in several of them, so they’re clearly made locally. “What about these?” Emily says, pulling out a set of three paintings, each featuring the sea from a different angle. “We could display them in the kitchen.”

“Or the entrance hall,” Jon suggests, tracing the edge of one of them. “Yeah, they’re great.”

Lovett looks away as Jon haggles over the price. So he’ll see these paintings every time he walks into their house. Fine. It’s fine.

It’s not like he’s ever going to forget long enough to need to be reminded in the first place.

 

—

 

Jon shoves Lovett up onto the counter as the pasta boils and shucks his shirt off. By the time Emily is emptying the pot into the strainer, Lovett’s hard in his sweatpants and sporting a constellation of bite marks and darkening bruises on his chest and neck.

“Baby, help me with the sauce,” Emily says, tugging Jon by the back of his jeans. She winks at Lovett over Jon’s shoulder as she sets him to work chopping tomatoes and parsley. Lovett leans back, breathing heavily, and tries to will his erection down so he’s not a complete spectacle during dinner.

“Here.” Emily shoves a dangerously full glass of wine into his hands and jumps up onto the counter next to him. There’s barely enough room for both of them—she’s pressed up against his side, practically sitting in his lap. Lovett finds he doesn’t mind.

“Let’s move here,” Emily says, taking the wineglass back and sipping from it. “Buy this house, bring the dogs, grow our own tomatoes.”

Lovett rolls his forehead against her shoulder. “I think Tommy would miss me.”

“Also we have a business to run,” Jon points out. “And a country to save.”

“Boring,” Emily says. “Let’s stay here and fuck until we’re too old to do it anymore.”

Jon lets out a delighted laugh, crossing the kitchen to kiss Emily, pushing her into Lovett’s chest as he leans over her. “You,” he says, smiling against her mouth, “are a menace.”

“And yet you married me,” she says softly, blinking up at him.

“I did do that, didn’t I?” Jon says, sounding smug. “That was pretty smart of me, wasn’t it?”

Lovett can feel Emily laughing, her shoulders shaking against him. “You have your moments,” she says, wrapping her legs around his waist and pulling him in.

Jon kisses her again, and then again, and then it grows slower and deeper, Emily making little moaning noises into his mouth as he slips a hand up her shirt, his other hand sliding down to squeeze her ass. She grinds up against him; she’s so tiny he’s practically lifting her with one arm. “Come on,” she says, panting against his mouth.

“Here?” Jon asks, peeling one of her straps down and palming her breast. Emily tips back against Lovett’s chest, her head on his shoulder, and suddenly he can see everything. Jon’s hands on Emily’s bare tits, her thighs bracketing his, Jon’s heavy cock, obvious in his pants. Emily squirms closer to him, wrapping her legs around his waist and pulling him flush against her.

“Here,” she says.

It feels like being handed an all-access, backstage pass to his favorite movie. Like being given an after-hours tour at Disneyland, or Buckingham Palace. That’s the only way he can describe it, watching Jon peel Emily’s panties down and slide into her, fucking her on the counter, practically in Lovett’s lap. It feels like a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, a chance to see something most people will never get to see. Actually—Emily arches up, gasping in Lovett’s ear, her throat long and taut as she throws her head back—it feels like he _snuck_ in, slipped past the guards, and found himself somewhere he’s not allowed to be.

Jon pulls out and strips his cock, coming onto her smooth, tan thighs. Lovett stares, imagining leaning over and licking the come off her skin. His mouth waters, and his cock grows harder at the thought—standing between her thighs, bending low and licking and sucking at her skin until it’s clean, until there isn’t a trace of Jon left on her.

He tears his eyes away and finds Jon looking down at him. “Let’s leave you till after dinner,” he says, fastening himself back up.

“Oh sure,” Lovett says, even as Emily pushes off his leg, squeezing his knee as she goes. “That’s great. Really nice, guys.”

“Feel free to get yourself off, if you want,” Jon tells him agreeably. “I’ve got to make this sauce if we’re going to eat tonight.”

“Who _cares_ about food?” Lovett cries. “You’re both terrible! You _should_ starve, look at what you’re doing to me?”

It’s the wrong thing to say. They turn to face him in unison, taking in his marked-up chest and tented sweats, and Lovett has the distinct pleasure of watching their faces grow warm and sharp, an unspoken promise in their eyes.

“I’m going,” Lovett says, with as much passion as he’s ever said anything in his life, “to murder both of you.”

Jon smirks at him and turns back to chopping vegetables.

Lovett closes his eyes and groans loudly.

 

 

Dinner is delicious and nineteen hours long.

Emily and Jon seem only too happy to draw it out, serving each course with the ceremony of a White House state dinner. “It’s just a _cheese plate_ ,” Lovett protests as Emily describes the origin and taste palate of each wedge on the cheese board.

“And this is gouda,” she continues serenely, ignoring him. “It goes beautifully with the apple slices.”

“I’m going to stab you with that little knife,” Lovett grouses.

Jon sits next to Lovett, their legs pressed together, his arm draped over the back of Lovett’s chair. He spends the entire dinner touching Lovett—squeezing his sides, and rubbing his shoulders, and one time, right when Lovett was lifting his wine to his lips, licking the side of his neck. Lovett yelps and spills right into lap, staining his pants red.

“Oh, no,” Jon says, his voice dripping with fake remorse. “Here, let me help.”

“No, don’t—” Lovett says, but Jon is already reaching over and rubbing Lovett’s crotch, palming his cock through the stained patch. The fabric sticks to him, wet and uncomfortable, but Jon keeps rubbing. “Jon,” Lovett hisses, bucking his hips.

“Hey, hey,” Jon says, taking his hand off Lovett’s cock and squeezing his thigh. “Behave yourself, we’re at the dinner table.”

Emily giggles into her spaghetti, and Lovett glares at her with the fury of a thousand suns.

They have dessert, because of course they do. Jon serves them from a tub of fresh chocolate gelato, carrying their bowls into the living room so Lovett has no choice but to follow. “Come here,” Jon says when Lovett goes to sit on the far end of the couch, pulling him to straddle his lap instead. “Want some?” he asks, lifting the spoon to Lovett’s lips.

“You’re a cliche,” Lovett says, rolling his eyes, but he parts his lips. The rich sweetness floods his tongue, cold and delicious, and then Jon is kissing him, his hot tongue a shocking contrast to the cold treat. He rolls his hips up, driving into the soft split of his ass, and Lovett groans against his mouth.

“More?” he asks, and Lovett nods, not even pretending anymore that he’s not game for whatever they have planned.

Jon spoons more ice cream into Lovett’s mouth, licking his lips and kissing him deeply to chase the sweetness, rolling his hips up into Lovett’s ass the entire time. “Fuck,” Lovett mutters, shoving down against him, a couple layers of clothing the only thing keeping him from fucking right back onto Jon’s cock.

“Jon,” he whimpers plaintively, not even caring how pathetic he sounds. He’s been on the knife’s edge for hours, and he’s not above begging to get fucked, not now, not after everything they’ve done to him.

“Tell me what you need,” Jon says, shoving a hand into the back of Lovett’s sweats and squeezing his ass. Lovett jerks forward, his cock sliding against the hard planes of Jon’s stomach, and he chases the feeling—rocking against him, rutting back against his hand and forward to rub his cock against him. Jon’s fingers dig into his cheek and work towards his hole, prodding at the slick, slippery entrance, because—

—Lovett’s face burns as he remembers—

(“Lovett, c’mere,” Jon had said as they finished their salad course, pulling Lovett’s chair back before he could even react. He'd tucked a curl behind Lovett’s ear—so sweet and gentle and loving that Lovett should’ve _known_ , should’ve guessed that some torment was about to follow—and then he'd kissed Lovett’s mouth and spun him around, pushing him face-down onto the table.

Lovett had bucked back, ready for it, anticipation prickling under his skin. Finally, Jon was going to take pity on him and fuck him, or wrap a hand around his cock and get him off like this, or plug him up with his fingers and let Lovett jerk off into his own hand. He'd pressed his face into the wood table, relieved that he wouldn't have to beg for it.

“Em, can you hand me the olive oil?” Jon had asked casually, yanking down Lovett’s sweats and underwear. Lovett had yelped, bucking up, but Jon simply pressed down with his forearm and kept him still. “Lovett, be good,” he had said, squeezing his cheek, pulling at it to expose his hot, grasping center.

He'd taken the bottle from Emily and drizzled it directly onto Lovett’s hole. Lovett had hissed, feeling the cool oil drip onto him, and then Jon was pushing it into him with two fingers. He was basically going in dry—Lovett had felt every inch of that stretch—but then he had pulled out and drizzled more olive oil directly into his hole, and then he was pushing his fingers back in again, and again—

And so it went for several minutes, Lovett biting his arm and groaning quietly, trying not to think about the fact that he was being fingered open by his best friend in front of his wife as she serenely sipped her wine. His skin was burning up, and he had felt like he might explode any second, disintegrate into dust right there on the dinner table.

“There,” Jon had said,  _finally_ , his voice satisfied and smug, pulling his fingers (how many? Three? Four? Lovett had no earthly idea) out and squeezing Lovett’s ass. “Time for the main course.”

Lovett had blinked, trying to clear the haze in front of his eyes. “What?”)

—and so—

—so Jon rubs at Lovett’s poor, stretched-out rim, his fingers growing slick from the oil he left inside him. Lovett whimpers and bucks back, letting out a soft cry of disappointment when Jon withdraws his hand.

“God, I love it when you’re like this,” Jon says, his eyes bright and sharp, taking in every inch of Lovett’s face. “So desperate, needing something only I can give you—”

“Stop it,” Lovett says, trying to hide his face, but Jon holds onto Lovett’ chin and forces his head up.

“I’m gonna take care of you,” he says softly, earnestly, his thumb prodding at Lovett’s lower lip. “Okay? I’m gonna always take care of you, give you what you need.”

Except he won’t, Lovett wants to cry. Of course he won’t. And sure, after this week he won’t be working Lovett up into such a state either, but somehow that feels even worse. He wonders if he’d accept that compromise—let Jon touch him, stroking and teasing him to just short of where he needs to be, but never getting him off? Would it be worth it? Would he give up a lifetime of orgasms if it means having Jon always looking at him like this, like he’s some precious possession?

Lovett decides he doesn’t want to answer that question.

“Okay, baby?” Jon is saying.

Another question he can’t answer.

Lovett still nods, his throat full and his eyes blurry, and Jon pushes up to kiss him, scraping his rough jaw against Lovett’s cheek. “Good,” he whispers, and then he’s nudging Lovett onto his back, yanking his sweats off, and sliding into him in one smooth thrust.

It goes wobbly after that, everything overexposed and technicolor. Lovett loses track of everything except the press of Jon inside him, filling him up. “So good,” Jon is panting, rough against his neck, “so good for me.”

Lovett strains up, wanting more, wanting Jon’s mouth on his and also on his neck and also suckling his nipples into hard peaks. It’s not enough, it’s nowhere near enough—Lovett wants to be _consumed_ , let the tide of him swallow him down. It feels manifestly cruel, suddenly, that they’re two separate bodies, that Jon can’t absorb Lovett entirely into his skin. Lovett chokes on a sob, wrapping himself tighter around Jon, aware of every square centimeter of skin where they’re touching.

It feels almost like a loss when Jon finally wraps his hand around Lovett’s cock and squeezes him to orgasm. _It’s too soon_ , he wants to sob, even as he’s spilling into Jon’s hand, knowing that it won’t be long now until Jon slides out of him, leaving him empty and clutching around air. He closes his eyes, still clinging to Jon as his pace speeds up. It’s too much—too fast and too hard, his oversensitive body twitching with every slide of Jon’s cock—but he doesn’t ever want it to end. _Just a little longer_.

Jon pulls up, tugging out of the circle of Lovett’s arms, and pulling Lovett's hips clear off the couch as he drives into him. “Fuck,” he gasps, his thighs slapping against Lovett’s ass with each bone-cracking thrust. Someone is begging, saying “please,” over and over in a low keen, and it takes him a moment to recognize his own voice.

“Please,” he says again, his face wet with tears, reaching for Jon with shaky hands, and Jon drops down, closing the distance between them, kissing him soundly as he fucks deep into Lovett.

“It’s okay,” he mumbles, kissing the tear tracks on Lovett’s face. “You’re perfect.” He pulls back, his mouth slack, and Lovett can see every muscle in his face suddenly twist up. “Lovett—” he manages, his arms shaking so badly he drops down again, landing heavy and solid on top of him. Lovett lifts his weak arms, wrapping them around Jon’s back as he shudders through his orgasm, twitching for several long minutes. Lovett can feel his cock softening inside him and he presses on the backs of Jon’s thighs with his feet, hoping to keep him still and seated in him, filling him up as long as he can.

Eventually Jon does pull out, leaving Lovett clenching and clutching around nothing. Lovett sighs at the loss, concentrating on the feeling of Jon’s come dripping out of him.

The next thing Lovett knows, Jon is tugging him around, pulling him back against his chest and tangling their legs together. He shoves a hand under Lovett’s shirt, palming at his chest. “You’re perfect,” he mumbles again against Lovett’s neck. “So perfect for us.”

Lovett closes his eyes, letting a nervous tremor pass over him. It’s hard to not feel tiny seeds of hope taking root when Jon says shit like this, but Lovett knows he needs to rip them out of the ground and salt the earth, before they root too deep. This is already going to be hard enough to come back from—if he even manages to do that—but there’ll be no returning for him if he’s the deluded freak who took a weird sex week and convinced himself it meant something more

He hears someone shift and looks up to see Emily, curled in the armchair across from them, an unreadable look on her face.

Lovett forces a smile, an expression that says _I know it’s weird your husband is currently wrapped around me, but it’s okay because we both know this is ending as soon as we leave this country_.

Emily smiles back at him, small and inscrutable, and Lovett keeps uprooting.

 

—

 

“Wanna go for a run?” Jon asks the next morning, sliding on top of Lovett and kissing him.

“No,” Lovett says, keeping his eyes closed. “I’m on vacation. It’s six in the morning.”

“It’s 9:30.”

“Time is subjective, get off me.”

Jon laughs, biting Lovett’s throat and rolling off him. He slips a hand under Emily’s camisole, but before he can open his mouth she smacks his shoulder. “Not a chance,” she says sleepily, rolling onto her side. “Get us breakfast while you’re out.”

After Jon leaves, the room falls quiet again, the only sounds a breeze outside their window and the Emily’s soft, steady breathing. Lovett closes his eyes again, dozing off.

He opens his eyes when Emily rolls over into his side, sliding one leg between his and resting her head on his chest. “Hey,” she says, her eyes still closed.

“Hi,” he responds, his hand drifting up to card through her silky hair. She hums contentedly, cuddling closer. They lay like that for several long minutes, drifting in and out of wakefulness. Lovett feels no desire to speak, or move, or do anything to break the spell. After a week of constant chaos in his mind, this perfect, quiet moment feels like an oasis in the desert.

“This is nice,” Emily mumbles.

“Okay, Bachelorette Emily,” he says. She smacks his chest. “Ow!”

“You don’t have to make _everything_ a joke.”

“I don’t!” he protests. “I’m very serious about the Bachelor franchise.”

Emily huffs a sigh, rolling off him and onto her back. “Fine, I was trying to have a nice moment.”

“Okay, okay,” Lovett says, turning onto his side. She matches his pose, propping herself up on one elbow and facing him. “Let’s have a nice moment.”

Her face twists up, amused and irritated. “Well—now it’s ruined! You can’t _force_ it.”

Lovett laughs. She’s adorable like this, her hair mussed and her nose wrinkled. He wants to snap a photo and tweet it to everyone. _Look at the version of Emily Black_ I _get to see, peons_ , he’d caption smugly.

She runs a hand through her hair, her ring catching on a few tangled strands. _Emily Black Favreau_ , he amends.

“Do you miss Pundit?” Emily asks, tracing the bumps of his knuckles with her nail. “I miss Leo so much I want to cry.”

“You have an unhealthy attachment to that dog.”

“Nice shade of black, Mr. Kettle,” she rolls her eyes.

“Yes, I miss Pundit. I’m kind of worried Tommy’s not going to give her back when we get home.”

“They need to get a dog,” Emily agrees. “Another sibling for Leo and Pundit.”

“If they get a goldendoodle, we’re going to deserve every out-of-touch LA elitist article they write about us,” Lovett says.

“Shut up,” Emily laughs.

“We should give Leo and Pundit real siblings,” Lovett muses. “Get in good with the family value set.”

Emily pauses. “Should we?” she asks, her voice even.

Lovett’s stomach twists. “Well, yeah,” he says, trying for nonchalance. “You and Jon are gonna give Leo a little brother or sister someday. And I’ll probably find a baby on the street and let Pundit raise it.”

She snorts. “No siblings for a long while, that’s for sure.”

“You mean you’re _not_ trying to get pregnant this week?” Lovett asks with feigned shock.

“Fuck off,” Emily laughs. “I didn’t work this hard to get my abs looking like this for the wedding to ruin it within a month. I need a couple more years with this waistline, at least.”

“A stellar reason to put off motherhood,” Lovett teases.

“If it’s so important to you, _you_ can carry Jon’s babies,” she says, pushing his shoulder.

“I don’t think it’s gonna work like that,” Lovett says, ignoring the roaring in his ears as his pulse starts to race. The images flash in front of him, too fast to fight back—the swell of his stomach under Jon’s large, possessive hand; a baby in his arms as Jon and Emily curl up next to him on the bed; playing on the rug with the dogs and their kids, rolling around together; a thousand family portraits, and dinners, and vacations, and bedtime stories.

“Lovett?”

He blinks and the picture dissolves. Emily is looking at him, her eyes narrowed in concern. “Are you okay?”

And then he sees it all again, a second draft with better editing. _Right scenes, wrong casting_ , the production notes read, and this time it’s Emily and Jon— _just_ Emily and Jon—with their perfect little sunlit family.

“Lovett?” Emily asks again. He smiles brightly at her, shoving his selfish, unhappy thoughts deep down.

“Just thinking about Pundit dressed up as Nanny from Peter Pan.”

She giggles, rolling back over Lovett and kissing him. He kisses back, enjoying the soft slide of her mouth on his and her warm skin under his hands, letting each touch and kiss smooth away his dark, bitter mood. She’s so tiny, barely weighing anything as he tugs her fully on top of him—Lovett remembers how easily Jon had lifted her off the counter last night, only needing one arm to hold her. His blood warms, imagining Jon holding her against the wall and fucking into her. He’d like to see that at some point, he thinks, tightening his arms around her.

“Wow,” someone says, and they break apart to see Jon standing in the doorway, breathing heavily and sweating. “And I thought it was hot outside.”

Lovett rolls his eyes, loosening his hold on Emily and letting her slide off. “Wanna join us?” she asks, canting her hips up as she eyes Jon up and down. “We were just getting started.”

Jon’s stripping off his clothes and jumping on the bed before Emily has even finished speaking, swallowing her delighted laugh with a kiss.

 

—

 

They spend their last day in various stages of undress, never far from each other. “Should we go into town?” Emily had asked muzzily, arching up. “Later?”

“Let’s just—stay here today,” Lovett had suggested, unable to tear his eyes from where Jon is sliding his fingers into her. “We have everything we need here.”

So they stay, eating when they get hungry and sipping from whatever open bottle of wine is closest. They put on enough clothes to be decent on their front patio, but that becomes a moot point when Lovett drops to his knees and sucks Jon down in the middle of their garden, visible to anyone passing by on the narrow dirt road. _Good_ , he thinks wildly, swallowing around the head of Jon’s cock and wringing a groan from his throat. _Let them see. Let everyone see._

Lovett wishes that time would crawl to a stop—preserve them in amber, forever trapping them in this perfect last day—but the clock is insatiable, eating up more and more hours every time Lovett glances at it. One minute it’s late afternoon, the sun low on the horizon and painting Jon’s back in golden hues—and then the air turns sweet and cool, a thousand stars appearing inn the sky, and their day has vanished into a dark, velvety purple night.

Lovett leans back in his chair and clutches a wine bottle by its neck. They’re upstairs, squashed together on the small balcony outside Jon and Emily’s room. There’s barely enough room for two chairs, so Emily sits in Jon’s lap, her feet propped up on the railing.

“Let’s do this once a month,” Emily says, breaking the silence.

“Come to Italy?” Jon asks.

“Yep,” she says. “That’s possible, right?”

“The dogs would get sad,” Lovett points out. “Also my fans.”

“I have fans, too,” Jon says mildly.

“Sure, but mine are rabid followers who will eagerly join my sex-and-murder cult someday.”

“Is this part of the Crooked Media five year plan?” Emily asks, raising an eyebrow at him.

Lovett shakes his head. “Just my contingency plan if Trump is reelected. I’m gonna move to North Dakota and have a bunch of orgies before convincing a thousand people to drink cyanide.”

“Sounds reasonable,” Jon laughs.

“You guys can join,” Lovett offers generously.

Emily wriggles back into Jon’s chest, wrapping his arms tighter around her for warmth. “Can we just do the orgy part?”

“Oh, suddenly you’re too good for ritual suicide?”

“Or we’ll have sex and you’ll rediscover your will to live,” Jon says, his voice heavy with suggestion. Emily groans, smacking his thigh.

Lovett snorts, thinking about Jon and Emily in white, flowing robes, dancing to some hare krishna music in a tent city that looks suspiciously like Coachella. Jon’s right, of course. He’d never be able to walk away from them, even in a farcical suicide cult scenario. _Sorry guys_ , he imagines himself telling a gathered crowd of thousands, Jon wrapped around him from behind, Emily standing by his side. _It’s been fun, but I think I’m gonna ride this one out, see how it goes. Cult disbanded._

It’s a nice thing to imagine.

A nice…dystopian suicide cult...daydream…

_Good work_ , he thinks, letting himself indulge in a little self-flagellation. _You’ve made great choices. Very healthy._

Jon says something into Emily’s ear and she laughs, twisting around in his arms to kiss him. It’s a soft kiss, practically chaste—nothing compared to the absolute filth he’s witnessed over the last two days—but suddenly Lovett can’t watch them for another second. A lifetime of _this_ , he has to look forward to: witnessing their PG displays of affection; their watered-down intimacy, appropriate for public consumption. What a bullshit diet of closed-mouth kisses he gets to look forward to, knowing that there’s so much more he’s not going to be allowed to see.

Jon is going to fuck Emily a thousand more times in their lives, and Lovett’s not going to get to see _any_ of it.

How incredibly, manifestly unfair.

As if reading his thoughts, Jon deepens the kiss, trapping her close with a large hand on the back of her neck, his other hand slipping under the hem of her shirt. Emily moans into his mouth, twisting halfway around, trying to find a better angle.

“Come—come on,” she says, a laughing gasp escaping her. She pushes off and stands, tugging Jon up with both hands. “We’ve got better places to do this.” Jon grins and kisses her again, holding her so tight that she lifts off the ground for a moment, her toes dangling in the air.

“Lovett,” Jon says, still kissing Emily, squeezing her ass through her shorts. “Come on.” It’s not a request, not even a suggestion. Jon says it like it’s a given, like there’s no universe where Lovett won’t follow them into the room, climb onto that bed with them, and give up everything Jon and Emily demand of him.

Lovett sits, frozen. He should leave. He should get up and make his way down the dark hallway to the empty room on the opposite end, sleep in his own untouched bed, leave them their last night to celebrate alone. Maybe the boundaries will hurt less if he puts them up a little at a time?

_Today, I didn’t have sex with them. Today, I didn’t touch Jon once. Today, dear diary, I walked by their house and didn’t go inside._

_Today, I didn’t talk to them at all._

Amazing, really, that heartbreak is such an accurate term. It feels like a physical crack, widening and sending pieces of his heart crumbling into the abyss. Would they notice, he wonders? If they looked at him now, would they see it on his face? He can’t imagine a coroner wouldn’t be able to tell immediately. _Wow, look at this scar tissue_ , they’d say, holding his damaged, abused heart up to the bright light. _No wonder no one wanted this._

He should leave, clutching his hands protectively over whatever pieces of his heart he might have left.

Lovett stands, and takes Jon’s outstretched hand, and follows.

 

—

 

With little fanfare, they pack up in the morning and take a taxi to the train station, falling asleep almost as soon as the train starts moving. They don’t wake up until the train arrives at the airport. Lovett blinks his eyes open as the train jolts to a stop, disoriented for a moment.

“Welcome to Fiumicino Airport, the final stop,” a robotic voice announces, and his heart sinks. That was it—their last few hours alone, before re-entering the real world—and they slept right through it. He wants to demand the train go back, do the route again, so he can use those hours like he should’ve done: touching them, kissing them, soaking up their attention for just a little bit longer. Just three more hours, measly little hours, with them belonging to him and no one else.

Jon and Emily show no signs of being bothered. “I need a Starbucks,” Emily says. “I don’t care if all the Italians are going to judge me, I want a frappuccino.”

“Fine, but I’m going to pretend I don’t know you,” Jon says, taking her bags down from the rack.

“I should get a t-shirt with your face silkscreened on it,” Emily grins at him, laughing when he tickles her side.

They have two hours at the airport, but between passport control and security lines, it vanishes in a blink. They barely have enough time to get Emily’s frappuccino before they’re racing for their gate, thrusting their tickets at the agent, and scurrying down the jet bridge. “Oh!” Emily says, breathless, as they get to the aircraft door. “We’re this way.” She points to her left towards the business class cabin.

It strikes Lovett, absurdly, that they didn’t even get a chance to say goodbye. Not really. If this is it, the barrier they’re going to cross that will magically turn them back into platonic friends, shouldn’t he at least get one last kiss out of it? Shouldn’t he be able to wrap his arms around Jon one more time, bury his face in Emily’s neck and breathe her in, let them hold him for a final few moments?

This can’t be it, can it? An awkward smile and a wave as he backs towards the economy cabin, tripping slightly over his own heels?

“See you later,” Jon says, shooting him a small smile, and then they’re gone.

 

—

 

“Hey, wake up,” Jon says, shaking his arm.

“Wow, rude,” Lovett mumbles, tugging his arm away. “I was sleeping.”

“I know,” he replies slowly, as if Lovett’s being dumb. “That’s why I said ‘wake up’.”

Lovett snorts, blinking his eyes open. The cabin is dark and quiet, and Jon is crouched next to him, his face achingly close to Lovett’s. He wonders what would happen if he leaned up and kissed him, right here and now.

Jon smiles. “The missus wants you.”

“That’s nice, I’m sleeping,” Lovett says, feeling ornery.

“Good for you. Get up and go take the nice business class seat.”

Lovett rolls his eyes but unbuckles his seatbelt, pushing past Jon into the aisle. “Are you gonna—” he says, realizing. “Will you be alright? By yourself?”

Jon’s face softens into something tender and sweet. It’s enough to make Lovett want to look away. “Yeah,” he says. “Taking off and landing are the worst parts.”

“Tell me about it,” Lovett mutters, and heads up the cabin to find Emily.

“Hey!” she says, delighted, when he climbs into the bed next to her. “The first two episodes of the Bachelorette are available, watch with me.”

“This is why you kicked your husband back into steerage?” Lovett says incredulously, even as he flips through the on demand screen to find the right episode.

“In sickness and in health, baby,” she says nonsensically, sticking an earbud in her ear. “Start placing your bets on how many people make racially insensitive jokes to Rachel.”

It’s feels almost normal, watching bad reality television with Emily. He doesn’t really care about the show, never has, but he likes how much she likes it. She gets genuinely invested, groaning at the bad pick-up lines, nudging Lovett excitedly whenever a particularly cute guy shows up, and at one point, tearing up at a particularly sad backstory.

“You’re such a sap,” Lovett teases her. “That’s such a contrived device, and I _know_ you know it.”

“I won’t apologize for being more in touch with my emotions than you” she retorts, swiping her fingers over her cheek.

“I’m _very_ in touch with my emotional side, I’ll have you know. Last week I cried at a video of a dog and a baby.”

“Feeling hormonal?”

“Shut up,” Lovett says, turning his focus back to the screen. “They should have gay people on this show.”

“I know, it would be cool if there were some bisexual contestants. Maybe they’d hook up with each other.”

“Also, how else am I supposed to find love if they don’t make a gay bachelor?”

Emily falls silent next to him, growing very still. Lovett winces—too soon, too obvious. They’re not even halfway across the ocean and he’s already making her feel sorry for him.

“Or maybe I’ll finally text that guy from the gym,” he says cheerfully. “He had great thighs. You know what I mean about a guy with good thighs, right?”

“So—” she says, clearing her throat. She stares straight ahead at the screen. “You want to date other people?”

“I mean—” he starts, feeling unsure how to answer. The question makes no sense. There are no “other people.” There are just people. He’d need to be dating _someone_ to make the qualifier necessary. “Yeah, sure.”

“No, it’s fine!” she says, her voice suddenly several octaves higher. She’s still not looking at him. “That’s great!”

Lovett stares at her, trying to make sense of the sudden shift in mood. Why on earth would this be upsetting news to her? Everything goes back to normal, Lovett finds a nice palate cleanser and stops drooling after her husband, win-win.

Emily is moving, unbuckling her belt and climbing gingerly over Lovett. “Sorry, I just—I’ll be right back.”

“What—” Lovett asks, but she’s already gone.

A minute later Lovett looks up to find Jon hovering over him, the expression on his face somewhere between confusion and anger. “Do you know why,” he starts, his eyes narrowing, “Emily is crying in your seat back there?”

“She’s _what_?” Lovett pushes up, horrified and guilty. “Why?”

“I was hoping you’d tell me,” Jon replies evenly, shoving Lovett into the window seat and taking his vacated one. “She said something about a guy from the gym and then sent me up here to deal with it.”

“Deal with _what_?” Lovett asks weakly. He can’t figure out what went wrong, where they lost their footing. “I didn’t _do_ anything.”

“What were you talking about, then?”

“The Bachelor!” he cries out, throwing his hands in the air. “We were joking about a gay Bachelor, and I said something about going on the show, and then we were talking about me messaging this guy when I get home—”

Jon jerks, twisting to face Lovett more fully. “A guy?” he asks. His face is doing something complicated.

“Yeah,” Lovett says, suddenly on unsure footing. Maybe this was too weird to bring up, after all. He’s not sure why it drove Emily to _tears_ , but he does know that he doesn’t particularly want to have this conversation anymore. “It was just a joke.”

“You were joking with her about dating someone else?”

“I mean, yeah. Well, the gym bro was the joke.” Lovett squirms in his seat, feeling trapped and uncomfortable. How many hours can it be until they land in LA? They’ve got to be almost there. He feels, suddenly, like he’s been on this flight for a thousand hours.

“What gym bro?”

“There was no—there is nobody,” Lovett says, suddenly exhausted. “There’s nobody. I’m not dating anyone. I’m not planning on dating anyone. Is that what you guys needed to hear?”

Jon stares at him, his eyes dark and inscrutable. Lovett tries to stare back, match his laser focus, but his willpower crumbles and his eyes skitter away. _Go ahead_ , he thinks, feeling his veneer slipping away. He sinks back into his seat. _Take a look. See what’s left of me._

“Lovett,” Jon says, and his voice is unbearably gentle. Lovett wants to cry. “Lovett, what do you think we’re doing here?”

“Staying elevated through witchcraft, probably,” he says in a poor attempt at humor.

“I’m serious—”

“I don’t know, Jon.” Lovett shakes his head. “Heading back home where we’re going to have an awkward few weeks before things start returning to normal.”

“Who said anything about returning to normal?” Jon asks. He’s leaning into Lovett’s space, taking up more room than he has any right to. _Par for the course_ , Lovett thinks hysterically.

“It’s _fine_ , really, I’m going to be—”

“Did you really think this was just—”

“—probably going to need to fuck a few people before I get you out of my system—”

“—don’t just take random people on our _fucking honeymoon_ —”

“—I’m not _expecting_ anything, don’t worry.”

“Don’t—” Jon shakes his head, his jaw tight. “Don’t _worry_? Fuck you, Lovett.”

“Okay, _hey_ ,” he says, shocked at the uncharacteristic outburst. “Wow, okay, what the fuck is your problem?”

“My problem?” Jon laughs bitterly, keeping his voice low. “My problem is that if I’d known you were just in this to get your rocks off, maybe we wouldn’t have done this on our _honeymoon_.”

Lovett presses back against the side of the plane, feeling furious. “Okay, asshole, it wasn’t _my suggestion_. Pretty sure you and Emily were dragging me along the whole—”

“Oh, I’m sorry we wanted to have you with us—”

“—and we know it wasn’t my idea to _change my plane tickets_ , but you both—”

“I just really thought you wanted to be there,” Jon says, his jaw working. “It was a mistake.”

“I wouldn’t have come either!” Lovett bursts out, horrified to feel tears prickling at his eyes. “Is that what you need to hear? I knew this was a bad idea, but I thought it was my only chance, and I’m sorry, I’m _sorry,_ alright? I ruined your honeymoon, I ruined everything.”

He swipes at his eyes, sniffling, humiliated. Jon doesn’t even do him the courtesy of looking away, giving him enough privacy to compose himself.

“Your only chance?” Jon asks.

“What?”

“You said it was your only chance?”

“I don’t know, it felt like it. Maybe this would’ve happened another time, under different circumstances.” Lovett trails off with a shrug. “But when you get a winning lottery ticket you cash it in as soon as possible, right?”

“I’m not sure that metaphor makes any sense.”

“Whatever, I’m not on my A game right now,” Lovett sighs. “I just mean—if I was only ever going to get one chance to be with you, I had to take it.”

Jon stares at him, his hand twitching on the console near Lovett’s hip. Lovett wonders if he’ll let him go now, if he can escape back to his seat and send Emily back up and be alone, blessedly alone, for the last few hours of this flight.

“It wasn’t your only chance,” Jon says.

Lovett resists the urge to sink back in his seat and close his eyes. Apparently Jon isn’t done talking.

“Lovett, it wasn’t your only chance. It’s _still_ not your only—do you really think this was a one-time thing?”

“I mean, it’s a tryst, not a one-night stand, but—”

“No,” Jon says, so forcefully he stops talking. “It wasn’t a fucking tryst.” His voice is nearly shaking when he says, “Lovett, we love you.”

“I know, I love you guys—”

“No, we _love_ you, shut up,” Jon says, cutting him off. “We’re in love with you. We want you. We want to be with you.”

Lovett stares at him. “What?”

“We. Are. In. Love. With. You,” Jon says, his mouth quirking up as he enunciates clearly. “I can make a chart for you if you need—”

“That’s so stupid,” he interrupts. “You’re not—that’s stupid.”

“I don’t think so, but who knows,” Jon says. “Still true, though.”

“You just got _married_ ,” Lovett hisses.

“Yeah, it’s kind of a package deal, I thought you picked up on that.” Jon is fully grinning by now, clearly delighted by Lovett’s absolute befuddlement. “You didn’t seem to mind this week.”

“I don’t mind, I—that’s not the _point_ ,” Lovett says, outraged. “You just wanted to have some fun!”

“Did we?” Jon asks calmly.

“Of course you did!” Lovett’s voice sounds panicked to his own ears. “Makes a hell of a lot more sense than wanting to, what, become a happy throuple—”

“Maybe we’ll start with dating, but we’ve got that big new house we’re moving into—”

“I’m not,” Lovett says, his voice high and shrill, “ _moving in with you._ ”

“Okay,” Jon says, completely at ease. Lovett hates him. He hates every inch of his stupid, perfect, ridiculous face. “We can talk about it.”

Lovett wants to squawk in outrage, continue to protest and argue, prove his point that Jon is clearly _wrong_ and _mistaken_. But Jon is smiling at him, soft and gentle, and the last of Lovett’s resistance crumbles into dust.

“You love me?” he asks, his voice small.

Jon surges forward, seizing Lovett’s face in his hands and kissing him. “You are—” he says, pressing their lips together and kissing his cheeks and jaw and lips again, “—the biggest idiot—”

“—that’s unfair and I’ll prove it to you,” Lovett says, muffled against Jon’s mouth. He sighs, relaxing in his grip. “Someday.”

Jon kisses him again, deep and sound, and then pulls back. “I’m sending Emily back up, you need to apologize—”

“Maybe _you two_ owe _me_ an apology, have you ever thought about that?” Lovett asks, indignant, even as he pushes forward to chase Jon’s lips again.

Jon kisses him and then stands, and then sits back down and kisses him again. “Fuck,” he says roughly, rubbing his face on Lovett’s neck, surely leaving stubble burn all over. “I _love_ you.”

Lovett melts further, turning his face blindly to seek out Jon’s mouth. “Me too,” he says, surrendering. “Me too.”

 

 

Emily arrives back at their seats, trepidation and tentative hope warring on her face, and Lovett grabs her hand, tugs her down, and kisses her without a word. Jon comes back up before landing to reclaim his wife and his seat, finding them holding hands across the console. The soft look on his face is enough to keep Lovett’s chest fluttering all the way down the tarmac.

The Lyft drops them off on their street and Jon doesn’t even hesitate before dragging Lovett’s bags into their house, leaving Lovett no choice but to follow.

The thing is, of course—

—they kick off their shoes, dropping the bags at the bottom of the stairs and opening all the windows to let a breeze in, the cool night air drifting through the house and making it smell fresh and sweet—

—they open a bottle of wine, something left over from the wedding, drinking at the kitchen island out of mugs because Emily doesn’t want to hand-wash wine glasses tonight—

—Jon kisses Lovett against the counter, pressing into him with his full length, and it’s not rushed, there’s no intent, he’s just doing it because he can, because he wants to, because they have all the time in the world—

—Emily shoves Lovett towards the shower with a kiss and a squeeze; she joins him five minutes later, cajoling and pleading until he lets her condition his hair, scraping her nails over his scalp as she rubs the cream out of his wet curls—

—they collapse into bed together, bone-tired and jet-lagged, and Lovett sleeps for long, dreamless hours between them; he wakes up to the sound of cars on the street, and dogs barking, and laughter drifting up the stairs, beckoning him to follow it down, because—

—the thing is, of course—

—he was always going to follow them.


End file.
